The random craziness file
by Darklooshkin
Summary: Here's where I put all the great ideas I get. I hope you like them. Monologuing is such a cool thing to do sometimes.
1. The career tribute, part 1

Summoned by the cup

**Disclaimer: none of this is mine. None of it. I just wrote it for fun and letting off steam (strange, right?), but I have no claim to the material it is based on. No money, no profit, no perks, just writing.**

A/N: Well, you know the storyline. Harry/Harriet/Rose/whatever goes missing/is abducted/is believed dead/gets tossed out/runs away from his/her/its relatives/parents/guardians for an indeterminate amount of time. After repeated failures to find and secure The One, a tri-wizard tournament is held. His/her/its name comes out of the cup and is consequently summoned right into the great hall. Think 'familiar of zero'-style plot with one helluva twisted hero coming out each time.

Below is the first entry in the series. Enjoy.

* * *

The Career Tribute

The District 1 tribute training centre is not what you would call a humane environment. Out of all the training centres, it is the biggest, with the most comprehensive terrain-specific training grounds offered by any training centre in Panem. Rain soaked jungles, stagnant cesspools that pass for swamps on a good day, mountainous environments, small villages, ruined cities, empty plains and lush forests are but a few of the areas that the various career tributes 'enjoy' during their training. Then you have the classrooms offering a high-quality education, complete with the latest in electronic gadgets & computing technology as well as a luxurious set of dorms that include a spa, well-appointed gyms, TV rooms, libraries and even an indoor amphitheatre where the students could indulge in theatre performances, political debates, public lectures and even the odd honour duel.

In theory it's all bright and lovely and a tribute to the generosity of the citizens of Panem in general and the Capitol in particular.

The reality is far more sinister. The tribute training centres provide the best, yes. But the whole purpose of these facilities is to train children to kill on command. The students that roam these grounds, attend these classes, enjoy these facilities and entertain themselves here are stuck in a gilded cage. Outside, no future awaits. Inside, the sole path to glory is through murder. For a select few of them, eternal glory and undreamt of wishes await if they survive the gauntlet of the hunger games. In the meantime, the children learn all about the price of ambition, the cost of privilege and the depths of depravity humans will embrace if only it makes their lives that tiny bit better. And the greatest tool they have is that they can, within these walls, kill with impunity. All have a reason to, though many refuse to indulge in such acts. Mostly. But the children that go here are, regardless of origin, all united in their desperation for advancement once outside the walls.

The elite students, the ones who came from the Capitol's more influential families, were those that stood to inherit nothing since their siblings or cousins would, as they say, get it all. They were sent to the academy to train them to be as ruthless & bloodthirsty as they possibly could be, to prepare them for success in the vicious set-up that was everyday life in Panem. They will brutalise and kill all who oppose their rule.

The orphans, the ones who were dumped on the training centre's doorstep, belonged to the training centre. Only the best would thrive alongside the children of the major families there. The rest would become the target practice Career tributes use to bloody themselves in preparation for the Games. They are both the most numerous and the most viciously competitive students in the centre and will stop at nothing to keep themselves alive.

And then you had the orphans who caught the eye of self-same influential families, adopting them in exchange for services rendered later. These children would be granted the same privileges as the elite, never having to fight their peers for better grades to avoid being used in the training areas as prey to their faster, smarter and stronger peers. Never having to go hungry if they missed a meal after being chased by those looking to eliminate the competition for their grade point average. Never being hamstringed in some way, shape or form before phys-ed evaluations take place, where the fates of those not up to snuff is rumoured to be short, painful and loud. Begging for mercy is not an uncommon sound to emanate from the phys-ed teachers' offices following said evaluation. However, all this comes at a price.

To the families, it guarantees that those with abilities far exceeding those of their peers' get to benefit from their skills, an investment of sorts.

To the adopted, it's an understanding that they will spend a decade calling this or that person boss, master, sir or any above combination, depending on whether the family had adopted them for family-related matters or if they were simply acting on behalf of one of Panem's numerous business interests.

To the other students, it's a means by which the orphans cheat their way out of their proper place by whoring themselves out to the highest bidder. And since a great number of elites attending the training centre have mothers who were 'adopted' by their fathers whilst studying in the centre's halls, there is a grain of truth to the whoring out part of the equation.

Of course, everybody completely ignores the lengths the Orphans went to to net themselves such benefactors. Again, it was normal for aspiring adoptees to sabotage or even outright kill their rivals if it meant making their odds that much better, staying ahead of the pack for that much longer. And after they get what they want, the adoptees still have to shield themselves from assassination attempts by both the Orphans looking for a second round and the Elites looking to warn off the other aspiring adoptees. So they retaliate. And as time goes by, the attacks get more and more vicious while the retaliations become downright horrifying. Most of the deaths are attributed to adoptees looking to save their skins, gradually losing their faith in humanity in the process and pre-empting their perceived enemies by killing them as viciously as they can. By the end, the most successful start murdering for sport, simply because they can no longer dissociate their peers from their enemies. Anyone in their age bracket is a danger, and killing is the only viable response they know that works.

* * *

One such adoptee was currently standing in front of her 'father'. He'd been the one to discover her during a hunt for Dissidents in one of the ruined cities. Initially, he wanted nothing to do with the wretched little bitch. No matter how young she was, no matter how filthy and hungry she had been at the time, under normal circumstances he would have just gutted the girl and watch her life bleed out of the little bitch's carcass with a smile on his face. She'd been found outside Panem, outside a district and, therefore, was born to those outside of his control. In other words, she was the offspring of Dissidents or was even a Dissident herself. He didn't give a shit about how young she was. She was a threat to his authority and he would have gladly removed that threat from the face of the earth.

But alas, the cameras were rolling and he couldn't say 'no' to _some _good press while his forces dug mass graves not two hundred metres away. And so he'd taken her back to his estate, bathed her, fed her, given her a bed to sleep in. And then dumped her at the tribute training centre the very next day. He wasn't an unkind man when the fickle media was involved though, and so he arranged a stipend for her and gave her conditions for adoption, namely that she be at the top of all her classes, that she excel in academics _and_ her physical education until the age of eleven. In private, though, he added a further stipulation; to bring him the heads of five Elite students without anyone else finding out before he did.

Five years later and he'd forgotten all about it. How couldn't he? That promise, made to a fucking barbarian parasite no less, held no meaning for him or anybody of any importance. There was simply no way that the little bitch could possibly pull it off.

Except she did.

He realised he was missing something when, on one fine autumn's day, a package had been flagged by his chief of security. Now normally these packages contained fun junk like poisonous gas, hungry nanites or even the good old nailbomb or five, but that never warranted for him to be called in by chief Cuddles to request clarification. What he'd found was insane. It was a plastic box filled with severed heads. On the top of the box, a transcript detailing perfect scores in _everything_ as well as a letter with the words 'Remember the promise' written out in perfect Panem script, signed by someone calling herself 'Rose no-name'.

The photo of the person on the transcript eventually reminded him of the promise he'd made.

So he went to meet her and make discreet inquiries about her with the faculty and to see for himself whether or not this girl should be shot for lying to him. The staff all grumbled at the little bitch of course. She'd been quiet up until her tenth birthday, but then she'd started to correct them whenever they made a mistake during their lectures. When they tried to fail her or give her bad marks, she challenged them in the principal's office... and won. She'd goaded and insulted as many Elites into attacking her as she could, always getting away with nary a scratch while the others nursed broken bones and damaged muscles for their pains. Then, a few days ago, she'd broadcast the fact that she would be training in the Jungle Arenas, alerting all the Elites in her class as to her whereabouts over that weekend. They had yet to report in.

He'd gone in incensed at the little bitch's lies, hoping to find _something_ to give the media when he had her skinned alive for treason. He left the principal's office intrigued at the girl. So he'd gone off to meet her. It was like staring into a mirror. She had the faint sneer he adorned whenever the cameras weren't rolling. She had the stance that screamed 'danger' to the sheep and 'leader' to him. She had the look in her eye that promised pain and death to her enemies and enslavement to her followers. She was perfect.

So he, President Snow, adopted a little Dissident girl into his family, making her the _de facto_ heir to his holdings in the process. But that came at a price. He made clear to her that just one slip-up would result in her death. One wrong move in front of the cameras, one off-hand remark too many, one criticism, witticism or insult directed towards him at any time, one slip in her public and/or academic career before _his_ death... all would result in torture, humiliation and protracted agony before he slit her throat himself. And she'd _grinned_ at him, a slightly crazed look entering her eyes as she nodded. Then she'd _hugged him, _which he promptly beat her for.

And thus Rose No-Name became Lady Snow to Panem. If anything, she became even more vicious after her ascendancy to power even while the media made goo-goo faces over President Snow's new offspring. She started with her classmates who, after hearing about her killing off a dozen of the best fighters in her year, quickly latched onto the girl. Then, she expanded her reach in the dorms, using her new minions to quickly subdue the younger ones while she systematically beheaded the leadership of the classes in the older years. She sent him the severed heads of the offspring of his most trusted allies, with a plea to make them into trophies. He indulged her in that. The girl truly was taking after him to a most satisfying degree.

And, finally, she consolidated her hold on power a month after finishing off the last Elite in her classes by either ambushing or duelling the Elites in training from other parts of the campus. Knowing that she couldn't extend her reach too far, she opted to leave one Elite alive per dorm. That Elite reported to her and only to her. He found it amusing that she used the very threat he'd used against her to keep them in line. Watching one of their own be slowly disembowelled by a media darling, in broad daylight, inside the administrative building's Atrium was a nice touch.

Then she went even further when it came to training and education, often ending up with scores above the theoretical maximum awarded. Oh, it sometimes dipped when some of the dimmer minions tried to set themselves up as competition, but they never lasted very long. After all, the highest grades always belonged to her and her followers. If they ingratiated themselves with her, they got personalised training by her as well. Seeing a mediocre Orphan languish at the bottom of the class only to rocket to a position in the top 5 within a month showed just how effective she was, oh yes. And they'd do anything, _anything_ to stay close to her, to reap the awards being in her good graces brought, to _live_ just that tiny bit longer.

He had been impressed at the girl despite himself. And during the summer of her twelfth year, she came to stay at his place for two weeks. It would have been two months, except that she'd put in a request to join a hunter-killer squad that was rounding up Dissidents outside the districts. The following year and the year after, she continued her academic studies via distance education, sending in assignments whenever her and her fellow troops touched ground. The officers had grumbled about having a teenager join a spec ops squad, but that had quickly disappeared beneath a slightly awed respect for Rose's skills and the fear of what either of the Snows would do to them if a bunch of their nominal social subordinates continued annoying them. Needless to say, for her superior officers' quick thinking and performance managing Rose in the field, the man had been appointed as part of his personal guard squad. After all, if she ever came after him, he wanted someone who knew _exactly_ what it would take to kill the girl before she got to him. And so it went for two years, getting perfect results from schoolwork even as she pitted herself in battle against the toughest & most determined enemies of the state left within striking distance of the districts.

And now, following two years of distinguished service fighting Barbarians, Dissidents and Terrorists in the woods around Panem, here they were back on campus.

"Are you ready for this?" He asked, clearly proud of the girl that carried his name now.

"Yes sir, Mister President, sir!" she exclaimed, the salute ruined by her cheeky little smirk. Huh, he probably would have shot her on the spot before she'd made him laugh at her Medal of High Merit Awards last year. Now he merely smiled at her antics. How strange.

"Well, if you're sure..." he shrugged. "Don't get too cocky. The Hunger Games have proven, time and again, that training and experience may work most of the time, but that you don't stand a chance in hell if you don't follow your instincts."

"Yes sir." She said, once more completely serious. He nodded, then grabbed the back of her head and brought her to eye level with him.

"And if you lose, I will erase you from history. Nobody will _ever_ know your name, Lady Snow. You know I can do it." He hissed at her, smirking at her whimpering flinch. That was what she'd always craved; the power her name would bring. The power she gave it. Her actions on the battlefields no-one talks about in Panem made it clear that the secret to her success was that she always put everything on the line. To her, being remembered was more valuable than being alive, and her reaction confirmed that she understood his threat perfectly. "Ah, so now you understand." His smirk turned into a crazed grin at seeing her glare. "Ah ah ah now, fair warning is all I'll give you and I just did."

"Yes. Sir." Ah, but the grinding of teeth was music to his ears. He released her from his hold, letting her stand to attention again after re-adjusting her uniform.

"Now rein in that lip of yours, girl." Ah, that _delightful_ flinch never gets old. "Save your energy for your prey." At her nod and slightly relaxed shoulders, he clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Now go in there and show the world what it means to be a Snow. You know the consequences of failure girl, now get to it. And may the odds ever be in your favour."

"Yes sir. And thank you... Father." And with that, she walked away, not seeing the look of shocked surprise on her adoptive father's face. "May the odds be in your favour as well." Was the last thing he heard before the doors closed on the strange girl.

* * *

"All rise." A roar of squeaking chairs and muffled curses followed that statement. The non-descript Capitol Celebrity stood there, all done up in what the currently trendy fashion designers thought looked pretty enough to go on camera. Instead, she looked more like one of those circus clowns to young rose; all make up and strange shoes with little in the way of substance lurking beneath. That lady was a disgusting creature. Rose wondered what the boys back at the barracks would be willing to pay for her, then dismissed the thought. They were too used to not paying for anything like that out in the Wilds. And, quite frankly, the wilds had better girls than that... _thing_ strutting in front of the cameras right then. More sporting ones, at the very least. Still, maybe she could ask Father for the use of her and a couple of other throwaway camera girls as a birthday present next year. The thought left her smiling in anticipation.

The clown in expensive clothing cleared her throat. "Dear students, I congratulate you on having completed your final year here, at the District 1 tribute training centre-"

She stopped listening at that stage, merely nodding along in the right places while she drifted off into her own little world. After graduation, she would be eligible for entry into the Hunger Games. And all would know her name.

* * *

Three hours later, a tired Rose Snow was sitting in the presidential ground car, staring out at the outer rim of the Capitol flashing by. A massive tent city had built up over the past few months, courtesy of Rose and her fellow HK troops raiding an almost intact small town that had been lost in the woods for years. There had been thousands living there when Rose abseiled into an important-looking structure and started rounding up and executing whoever she came across. Now, only a couple of hundred could have been left from what she saw going into the suburbs. Say what you want about morality, but an HK squad is _thorough. _And the best thing, to her, is that most of the survivors would then come to Panem requesting citizenship! She still found it baffling. Panem troops had just killed everyone and everything they ever knew and now here they are, begging to be assigned to a district? What the hell?

If there was ever anything that proved her Father's old adage about Might being right true, it was this. He was evil, he was immoral, heedless of the well-being of others and known to be a sadist without par in Panem, which was quite the achievement. But he was also her Father and, for all his faults, he kept his promises and had come to treat her with respect. Loads better than what she had become accustomed to before... Anyway, no use thinking about Before. Nono, bad place Rose, baad place. No food, no fun, no space. Think about other things...

She had graduated early and at the top of her class. She was the only one to have done so in the Centre's history. She had earned herself a place in the history books alread. But she hadn't been chosen to participate in the next Hunger Games. Hadn't been given the chance to _prove herself_ as quickly as she wanted to. She shrugged. Maybe a few more years taking out Barbarian settlements would do her some good. Maybe not. She was lucky to be here now. She was lucky to escape the Dark and the Damp, though she did spare a thought for the spiders she'd left behind. She just wished that it had not left her with so many unanswered questions.

She shuddered, her cheerful spirit broken by that one question she'd never dared to ask anyone, either Before or during her time in Panem. She thought about it, the question that she wanted an answer to so badly it _burned_ sometimes. The emotions and thoughts behind it were complex (I mean, who thinks about green laser shows and insane laughter when trying to picture loved ones?), but the question itself was rather simple;

"I wonder who my parents were." Too late she realised she'd said it out loud. She looked around the car, half expecting a hidden murder machine to shank her in the kidneys or even a bomb to go off. She waited fifteen seconds before sighing in relief – and promptly disappearing with a CRACK.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was an old, old man. Many would have said that he was past his prime, too far removed from his own experience with adolescence to be expected to understand the vagaries of youth nowadays. For all that, though, there was a reason why being a hundred and fifty had not impacted his career as a politician and part-time diplomat too badly. Simply put, he _looked_ old. But that was it. Massive amounts of magical power and a judicious use of potions had done nothing to make the outside look better, but had kept him out of the retirement house for close to fifty years now. Inside, he had the muscle tone and healthy organs of a laid-back twenty year old; not perfect, but he'd take what he was given.

His hidden youth and vitality was nowhere near as obvious most of the time, except on special occasions such as the one he was currently presiding over. He grinned at the residents of the great hall.

"And I think that it's about time now..." He said, covertly hoping that those ministry idiots _hadn't_ screwed the pooch again. Merlin, why had the Wizengamot elected to keep Cornelius in the drivers' seat for so long? It would be just like him to have the ceremony delayed by about a minute or so just to make a fool out of Dumbledore once again. May the gods have mercy on the man, but there were days where Albus wanted to team up with Lucius and turn the little rat into... well... a rat.

Finally! The first piece of paper fluttered downwards, its seemingly random vector pointed unerringly at the palm of his hand. He snatched it out of the air anyway, hoping to speed this up.

"Victor Krum!" the Durmstrang delegation erupted in cheers, clapping their comrade on the back as he walked down the aisle towards the head table. "Mister Krum, could you please proceed to the back room please?" The boy nodded, changing directions and making haste out of the room.

The second piece of paper came flying out of the Goblet as the door closed, Dumbledore snatching it out of the air once again.

"Cedric Diggory!" The Hufflepuff's reaction was... predictable, really. The whole house was known collectively as the House of Losers, and to have one of their own be declared the best representative of what Hogwarts had to offer was a powerful statement to the three other houses. And so the newly crowned King of the Badger House received his congratulations and sped off to the back room, eager to meet his competition.

The third and final piece came flying out.

"Fleur Delacour." Ah, a subdued reaction to their new champion. A few shook hands with her, congratulated her... but the vast majority of her colleagues just _glared_ at her. He just shrugged it off as a French thing. Merlin knows they'd gotten better since his youth, but they still were a bunch of pretentious bastards whenever he had the misfortune of running into their ICW delegation. So much class, so little in the way of tact. How on Earth they got along with the myriad American governments was beyond him.

The blonde bombshell made her way to the backroom, her delicate derriere leaving Albus to ponder about whether he should look into making himself a bit younger at some stage. Ah, no matter. His little break from reality would soon be over. Back to the grind, as they say.

"Ah, now that the selections have been made, I believe that food will be arriving shortly. If you would please wait until after the feast before questioning the champions, it would be greatly -"

The Goblet flared once more, the eerie blue-red colour of the flames gaining a sickly emerald and grey colour. The ceiling flickered and the candles vanished, leaving the goblet as the only light source in the room. The fire fanned itself and blasted towards the ceiling, the flames bathing the whole room in a sickly green light that had many of the Blood War veterans instinctively ducking for cover.

In the meantime, the stupefied headmaster looked down into his hand, feeling a strange sensation there. It was a piece of paper. Staring at it stupidly for a moment, the name on the parchment-like material only registered as the flames when from an eerie green to an Aqua Blue.

Rose Potter.

He'd said that out loud? Why were they staring at him? Was this some kind of sick joke? He'd spent the better part of the last nine years looking for her, did whoever had done this really think it'd be this easy? Hell, the entire Wizarding world had looked for the ever-elusive Girl Who Lived for years! The cash bounty alone would be enough to set anyone up for life. Add in the expected titles... When he found the bastards that had hi-jacked this tournament and endangered the life of an innocent girl then, light-sided or not, he would take a _special_ kind of joy in presiding over their execution.

"Rose Potter!"

Nobody said a word, horrified glances darting left and right, searching for the face, the scar, the _legend_. And still nothing came. The flames of the Goblet started to recede, candles appearing once more in their predetermined spots and the ceiling's enchantments returning to normal.

"ROSE POTTER!"

CRACK

A body appeared in thin air directly above the head table, crashing down _hard _on top of the enchanted Ebony surface. Not that that stopped the body from reacting ever so suddenly. Whoever it was, they'd ducked underneath the table before anyone else in the room could blink, coming up behind Albus and putting a knife to his throat so fast, nobody else had even moved. Oh, a complete unknown now held a knife to his throat. How nostalgic. It was like he was fifty all over again.

* * *

"Old man." a young female voice asked in a panicked voice. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

"Rose Potter?" He breathed, not daring to hope, after all this time.

"_Shut the fuck up!_" She hissed, the knife digging ever deeper into the tender, tender skin above his carotid artery. "I asked you a question. Answer the fucking question, then we can play the 'I show you yours if you show me mine' game."

He looked down at the scrap of paper, marvelling at the irony of having the girl he'd long thought lost drop into his lap, almost literally at that, after so long only to be killed by said girl once he told her about this. "Well, Miss Potter... It seems that you've been selected to participate in the tri-wizard tournament." He closed his eyes, waiting for the startled twitch that would end his life...

Only, the knife _loosened_ its hold on his neck. "Is that so? And where are the two others that are chosen for this... tri-wizard tournament?"

"You are the fourth contestant, actually."

"What? But it's tri-wizard. _Tri_. As in three. Can you people actually count?" She asked, clearly amused about the whole thing.

"Trust me, nobody was more surprised than I when your name came out of the goblet."

"I bet." He could hear the cheerful tone coming out of her mouth, sounding strikingly like her mother at that point.

"Now, can we please adjourn to the anteroom? We both doubtlessly have some questions, which I won't be able to answer correctly if I have to watch my breathing as much as I currently am."

"Hah!" She withdrew the knife from his throat, making him and most others in the room (wands all pointed at him rather than at her, the stupid idiots) relax... until he felt the sharp pressure of a blade against his kidneys. "Lead the way. And oh," she said in a louder voice "if any of you fucks does anything stupid, then grandpa here is going to be spend the last minutes of his miserable life trying to keep his guts from falling out through a hole in the back. Is. That. Clear?"

Well, Dumbledore thought, she sure knew how to handle a crowd. The old man chuckled. This would be a challenge, probably one worthy of his genius. Then again, maybe he shouldn't tempt fate too much, given his track record these days.

"And by the way, the name's Snow. Rose Snow."

* * *

Little Rose Snow sat at the table, clearly stunned at the things she was learning. The other officials just looked on in disbelief at the fact that their supposed Hero knew _nothing_ about magic, _nothing _about the wizarding world and _nothing_ at all about her heritage. This was a disaster!

"Magic exists. Well shit." she stated. It was kinda hard to ignore that _something_ was going on when one of the most heavily scarred people she had ever seen turned the chair you were sitting on into a pony. Of course, said person had almost been killed when she drew and threw a dagger at him, but the old man had had the foresight to deflect the projectile into the ceiling and call in the school nurse for later. Rose hadn't missed the implications of being given immunity from prosecution for justifiable actions taken during the tournament, no matter how stunned she was. What it translated to was being allowed to kill anyone who gave her any lip during the whole of this year. And the headmaster hadn't missed the grin on the girl's face.

"Indeed." The old man said, eyeing his awesome-looking wand in puzzlement. What was the big deal with that, anyway? So it didn't work once or twice, so what? "Say Rose, can you please hold this wand for me?"

"What?" Was the old bastard using slang for something?

"The wand." He said, waving it around in mid-air. "Can you just hold it for a second, please?" She just nodded, clearly skeptical about why this man was handing his weapon to her. But she put that aside and reached for the length of darkened wood.

The feeling the wand gave her was... _orgasmic_. It felt like her body was on fire! She was vaguely aware of the world around her, but not so much that she noticed her skin glowing a deep emerald green while her body convulsed at the sheer amount of _power_, pure, unrestrained _power_, coursing through her veins. Then, it stopped just as suddenly as it started, leaving her panting, gasping, aching for _more_. More _power_. More _control_. "More knowledge." She whispered, the stick (no, _wand_) in her hands responding on its own. She didn't even see her own hand, still clenched around the wand, shoot up at her head at snakelike speeds. The tip of the wand reached the small, barely visible scar sitting on her forehead and _pushed_ through the skin. A roiling wave of black pus squirted out from the scar, covering her face as she screamed in incredible _pain_. And then she knew no more.

The other people in the room, having just sat through what could be best described as a one and a half minute trip through insanity land that ended with this strange Girl-Who-Lived impaling her scar on the headmaster's wand (who, by the by, had fainted by that point as well) and then passing out after screaming bloody murder, just stared at the two people lying on the floor, one covered in blood while the other was covered in robes. At least, until Poppy Pomphrey finally arrived

"What in the name of Hades is going on in here?" The irate nurse exclaimed as she dashed towards the two unconscious people on the floor.

"I have no fucking clue." Barthemius Crouch said, still eyeing the dagger embedded in the ceiling. The others in the room silently agreed with him. This whole event was turning out to be too weird for words.


	2. The career tribute, part 2: Dragons

Summoned by the cup series 1: The career tribute

Being a crossover between the Harry Potter and Hunger Games universes. Follow Rose Potter, the Snow Queen, as she applies the lessons learnt in Panem to a completely unprepared Wizarding World.

The career tribute part 2: the first task

A/N: In case you haven't noticed, this Rose is not just evil. She's _fucking_ evil. She kills people, enslaves them, treats them like dirt and generally does whatever she pleases. She won't side with Voldemort, but that has more to do with her wanting to rule it all herself rather than any hatred towards a man with a lower number of casualties than she had by the time she was dumped in Hogwarts. In other words, she's awesomely evil and lives up to what kind of man President Snow would have had to have been to leave the bloodthirsty masses of Panem cowed by his very presence. Yeah, she has a kill count in the hundreds at the age of 14 and a raging hard-on for Roman-style subjugation of the masses. The wizarding world is in for a shock.

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims on material, just for fun and pissing on all those pseudo-evil Dark!Harrys out there. Dark!Harry would never angst. Never fret. Never falter. Dark characters kill, rape, mutilate and dominate everything until they win. Then they repeat the process until they win again. This is one such character.**

* * *

The morning of the first task dawned bright and early over Hogwarts. The Scottish landscape bathed in the golden light of morning sunshine, with only a few clouds showing themselves in the clear blue sky and a more enthusiastic than was healthy population waking up early and heading down to breakfast. All in all, a rather strange November morn to be had in Northern Scotland. Not that it bothered Lady Snow overly much. She was far too fixated on the coming entertainment for mundane things such as the weather to have penetrated her awareness just yet. Well, the entertainment and the slaves she'd managed to acquire a few weeks after arriving in this strange land.

It had been an innocuous occurrence at the time. Rose had decided, early on, to take a break while she was here. Her peers admired and loved her for some strange reason that didn't make sense, even with the explanation she'd been given. So she survived an attack as a baby. Big fucking deal. She'd thrived in the tribute training program, which was a _real _achievement. But what it meant was that most, if not all the students in this castle, would never lift a finger to hurt her. Well, except that blonde kid from the house of snakes. She'd enjoyed torturing him to death for his insolence, of course. Using the moving staircases helped disguise his death as an 'accident', though she sometimes caught the scarred asshole looking at her askance a couple of times. And the less said about the greasy shit who happened to have been Blondie's godfather, the better.

Point was, her admirers loved her and her enemies were far too scared of her to do anything, meaning that for the first time in over a decade, fourteen year old Rose Snow, nee Potter, had nobody trying to actively kill her. Her good mood lasted for a week. Turns out that living without the ever-present threat of violence was _dreadfully_ boring. How did other people even live like this? The thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline rush of fighting, the satisfaction of dominating your enemy and turning their relatives into fodder for the system... none of it was there! How dreadfully boring this was.

So she'd gone and checked out wizarding culture books to see what these guys did for fun. And that's how she'd found out about bonds. Namely, magical bonds forced upon the victim. Said bonds happened to be _perfectly legal_ _too_. Huh. She'd always wanted a slave or two. A few of her squad mates had taken some of the prettier Barbarians back to the barracks with them, but they never lasted too long. Now she too could keep one or two 'pets' around, the money those strange muties at the magical bank looked after probably more than enough to keep a few of them around in relative comfort!

Of course, she needed to stay on this strange country's good side for a while yet, so enslaving any of the local Elites was out. Offing the blonde had been a borderline case for, if she hadn't made herself an alibi and ensured that the death looked perfectly accidental with no magic involved, then immunity from prosecution would have meant jack to that dick's parents. They'd already publicly accused her of doing the deed, in response to which she'd kneed the jackass's father in the balls and slapped the mother's tits around before decking the both of them. She'd sent an apology letter to them afterwards, and received a politely worded request to kindly fuck off and die. And she'd obliged on the fuck off part, but still sent a letter pointing out, quite politely mind, that she was innocent of all charges while their son had generally made a lot of enemies during his time on god's green earth. So killing and/or enslaving any more Elites was out.

That left the local equivalent of Orphans or, as the magicals liked to call them, muggleborn. And boy, was it easy. Like shooting fish in a barrel. She'd read up on slavery bonds and came across the contracts the local lords used when employing indentured servants. A couple of modifications to the fine print, and _voila_. Perfectly innocuous-sounding contract that, on the surface, made the signatory keep the contract issuer's secrets while the fine print forced them to obey her every command, the contract's reach even extending the life of the contract to beyond the grave. The Elder wand's memories helped with contingency planning, namely obliviating the victim if they _do _read the contract and confounding them into signing any which was, again, perfectly legal to do to a muggleborn. Not that she'd ever needed to actually activate the contingency...

She'd tested it out on the bushy-haired brunette first. Not being sorted into any particular house, Rose goaded the girl into asking some questions about what school she attended and where she was from, the cryptic statements, vague allusions and obscure half-truths slowly driving the information junkie into pitching a fit. Then, all Rose had to do was act all shy-like, pretending like it was all a big secret she was supposed to keep before shoving a contract under the girl's nose. Not even bothering to read it, mind, the girl signed it and almost cried out when she felt the _huge _wave of magic tightening around her own senses. Rose then ordered the girl to follow her to her quarters. Turns out that she was right, having slaves tend to her on hand & foot was incredible.

The next one to fall for the trick was a boy called Justin Finch-Fletchley. Then came Colin Creevey and Dennis Creevey, who signed without her having to ask them anything. She owned ten percent of the entire student body from fourth year and up. And, thanks to the secrecy clause, nobody else knew. Not even the slaves themselves knew about each other. Only Hermione, as the first, knew that Rose had suckered others into the deal, but she was too afraid of what the girl would make her do to complain too loudly about it. A happy Rose, she found, used some pretty painful and humiliating ways to keep her pets in line. An angry Rose, as she found out two days into her mistake, loved using knives.

Ah yes, on the subject of Hermione... "Expecto Patronum." Lady Snow enunciated lazily, concentrating on the memory of that look of fear and self-loathing the brunette gave the floor when performing according to Rose's wishes. A brilliant thestral glided out of her wand, circling her with a playful expression. "Stop that, you. Go tell Hermione that I am waiting in my chambers. If she isn't there within five minutes of getting this message, she will be punished most severely. Clothing is, as always, optional." She smirked as the Thestral seemed to grow brighter, the happy memories fuelled by the anticipation of seeing her favourite pet arrive on Rose's doorstep as naked as the day she was born. Again. If that happened, then nothing would spoil Rose's day. Absolutely nothing.

* * *

"A Hungarian Horntail. Huh." Rose said, looking at the little figurine in her hand with a thoughtful expression while reviewing what Hermione had dug up on the creature a few days ago; twenty metres long from tip to tail, covered in bony, blunt spikes that grew out of their plated hide. Tough enough to weather a couple of _Kedavras_ and armed with a vicious set of razor-sharp, well, everything. Case in point: the Horntail's favourite hunting method consists of picking out a squishy-looking herbivore and to bellyflop onto the poor thing from a great height. The Horntail's belly, which is covered in retractable, serrated spikes, would contract just before contact, allowing those fishhooks to dig into the flesh of the animal and hold the victim in place during the flight back to the nest. If the cow, horse, centaur or whatever was lucky, they'd bleed out before being baked alive by the Horntail's fiery breath, a process that slowly cooks the fresh meat to perfection for the Horntail. Though sometimes, when eating humans, Horntails were known to skin them alive first. Huh, maybe hominid skin is just too stringy for an animal whose jaws can crack open ten-centimetre-thick metal armour with a single bite? Who cared. Well, her but hey, professional courtesy and all that tripe.

And these idiots expect her to take that monstrosity down without killing it? Using a fancy fucking stick? Her lips thinned at the idea. She manifested another Patronus to call Granger. The slave had things to get from the Snow Queen's Room. Huh, Snow Queen. She liked the sound of that.

* * *

To say that the goggling masses were disappointed was an understatement. The first time the _Prophet_ had published a photo of Rose Potter, the wizarding world came face to face with a metre eighty-odd fourteen-year-old wearing a black dress uniform with red highlights. The left and right side of her torso were studded with medals nobody could recognise while the epaulettes indicated that she held the rank of Sergeant in some unit somewhere.

The intimidating look was further enhanced thanks to shoulder-length curly black hair and fiercely intense green eyes daring the viewer to find fault in her appearance. The combat boots merely added to the militaristic way in which the girl presented herself. Overall, she struck an imposing figure.

Then, there were the odd rumours mentioned about her in the papers; how she was and wasn't a Hogwarts student, how she was seen training in the forbidden forest at night, how she would sometimes appear at breakfast, covered in blood and claiming that she'd scalped a centaur with a pocket knife...

Quite honestly, most of the wizarding world didn't know whether the girl should be worshipped or interned for her odd behaviour. So seeing such an attractive, high-spirited and seemingly dangerous girl being pitched against a Horntail was the star attraction here. All the spectators had gathered when the Horntail had been dragged in and the starting gong sounded... only to wait and wait for the girl to appear. The Horntail, on the other hand, was slowly going berserk. Though why that was wasn't noticed until fifteen minutes after the starting bell tolled...

* * *

An invisibility cloak was all well and good, but it kinda sucked when you were facing an angry mother dragon. Said angry dragon could, after all, smell you, hear you, see you in infra-red and, barring all else, sense your magical presence from a long way away. It was a flying, fire-breathing tank with an AWACS sensor suite... and it was pissed at her. So she ditched the magical jacket. It wouldn't do much good for having the Horntail pinpoint her thanks to the very thing that was supposed to keep her hidden. Instead, she opted for a dark blue khaki uniform with a magically expanded backpack thrown in. She then disillusioned herself, applied an overpowered notice-me-not charm and slipped through the tent flaps, moving quickly towards the rocky cliffs on her right.

The climb wasn't hard for her, having trained extensively in escape & evasion tactics back in Panem. The disillusion served better than a ghillie suit for breaking up her profile, but she could do without either if the situation called for it. She came up to a narrow path winding across the arena and stopped the climb there, her position offering a clear view of the arena floor and the Dragon warily eyeing the boulder-strewn path for any sign of movement. Rose frowned, observing the Horntail for a while. Why was it focusing on the narrow, boulder-strewn pathway on the arena floor anyway? Was it the lingering scent of the other contestants? Nevermind, she had work to do.

Moving along the narrow path, she found a new vantage point for herself. She silently prayed that both the charm would hold and the wind keep pushing her scent away from the ultra-sensitive nose of the angry mother Dragon still lounging restlessly less than a hundred metres ahead of her position. Taking off her backpack, she zipped open the pouch and started rummaging through the obscured contents, looking for a specific-aha!

She retrieved a container with a pin holding the top cover closed, the blank grey of brushed steel feeling at odds with the warmth the container gave off. She pulled the pin, drew her arm back and let the now smoking canister fly into the arena, with the small cylinder landing behind a rocky outcrop. Moving quickly, Rose zipped the backpack up by touch and put it on her back again, trusting the charm to keep her hidden for the scant few seconds it would take her to reach the back of the cliff overlooking the Horntail's nest.

She started running just as the jam can exploded, flooding every magical being's thaumic senses with the magical equivalent of chaff. Neither Dumbledore, the attending half-humans or even the Goblins laying in ambush for Bagman's hide could make out the slightest detail of what magic was happening inside the boulder maze. The dragon, of course, went crazy, sitting up on its hind legs and torching the stadium floor like a garden hose full of Napalm.

Just what Rose wanted. As the angry, angry Mother started straining against the chain holding her to the arena floor, Rose felt her disillusionment charm fade. She braced herself against the wall and jumped.

* * *

The angry Horntail was a terrifying spectacle to bear witness to. The sight of the angry mother Dragon rearing up on her hind legs and breathing fire seemingly _everywhere at once_ reminded Hermione of some Godzilla films she saw last summer. She really, really hoped that Rose had been on the floor just then. Hermione smiled. She'd liked Rose, to start with. Then, well, she became little more than Rose's bitch. Hermione _hated_ being anyone's pet toy, least of all the prized morsel of that psycho Potters'. She just repulsed Hermione with her attitude, her looks and the... things the dark-haired and black-hearted bitch had made her do. And yet, she couldn't help the treacherous little shiver of fear coursing through her body.

Hating her or not, Hermione saw that Rose, the cheerful, cheeky and crazy monster she was, was also the loneliest creature on the planet. Rose was, by design almost, constitutionally incapable of tolerating treating others as equals. They were either better than her or less than she was, both situations that warranted wildly different ways of behaving. But there never was an equal to Rose. But subordinates, slaves... Rose could live with those.

She was the kind of person that found it easier to trust and confess into people she held absolute power over rather than any friend or, in Rose's case, psychiatrist. As a result, Hermione was one of the few people who knew just how much of a monster her Mistress was. And that the others she spent time with were slaves just like her. And damn it, but she'd become attached to the crazy bitch! She hated her, loathed her for what she was, but also appreciated just how strong the girl was at the same time. She deserved respect... and a healthy dose of fear. She just hoped Rose never found out about loyalty potions, otherwise Hermione just _knew _ that she would have to kiss what was left of her free will goodbye. It was already hard enough to resist the degree of trust and intimacy the bloodthirsty bitch showed to her...

Which is why she simultaneously hoped that Rose had and hadn't been caught in the massive river of fire bathing the Arena floor. And why, just like everyone else, she'd screamed in surprise when she saw the black-clad shadow descend upon the now hapless Dragon. And land flawlessly on top of it.

* * *

Rose screamed her anger and agony out at the sky. She'd forgotten how abrasive a Horntail's outer skin really was, and was now feeling her hands pay the price with thousands upon thousands of microscopic cuts being inflicted on her palms. Quickly summoning her gloves, donning them and pointing her wand at the hands, willing them healed, she only belatedly realised that nothing had moved for the second or two it had taken to do this. She then looked up. Straight into the eyes of a surprised Horntail staring back at her. Oh fuck. Maybe this _hadn't been such a good idea-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

* * *

Rose held on for dear life, the _furious_ mother dragon alternatively trying to hit her with its tail, throwing herself against the cliff-face and furiously tugging away at the chain stopping it from taking even more drastic action. Finally, the chain snapped, which _hadn't_ been according to plan. Next thing she knew, she was right above the heads of the screaming masses of spectators and climbing fast. She felt the air around her get thinner and colder as time went on, the Horntail's massive armoured wings beating out a steady booming rhythm even as the Dragon gained altitude. Even with the gloves, Rose felt her extremities start to go numb. She decided to climb the back a bit.

As they reached the clouds, Rose felt comfortable enough with her position on the Horntail's back to cast a sticking charm on the glove, vertigo and thinning air warring with her adrenaline rush over who would cause the first of what felt like many strokes. The Dragon broke through the sparse cloud cover, allowing a hyper-ventilating rose an unobstructed view of the mid-morning sun... for the second and a half before the Horntail started going in the _other_ direction.

Rose screamed herself into unconsciousness at the force of both the wind and acceleration hitting her full-on.

She came to _sans _glove, free-falling with the Horntail still speeding along underneath her. The landscape she was rapidly falling towards was beyond beautiful, the earth's curve plainly visible from her point of observation. She took all this in with wonder, fighting the mild sense of panic at having lost grip of the one thing that could guarantee her a safe ride down to earth. Seemed that her ride still hadn't found out that her stowaway was missing. She sighed and retrieved her wand.

"Finite Incantatem! Accio Glove!" the muttered incantations came, causing a dark blue blur to fly straight towards her. Catching it on instinct, she decided to put it back on immediately before putting stage 2 of her incredibly stupid plan for survival into effect.

"Accio!" She cried, pointing her wand at the dragon below her. Thanks to the freefall, by using the summoning charm on something that outweighed her by a factor of several hundred to one, what she was actually doing was summoning herself to the object in question. Even with the Elder Wand, though, the drain on her magical functions was intense. Beyond the fire igniting in her hind-brain at the amount of magic her excited body was channelling, the awareness that she was gaining on the Horntail was a distant thing. That is, until the Horntail spread its wings and slowed, causing Rose to miss its back and overtake it.

"Motherfucker!" The now desperate girl shouted, clearly recognising that having a Horntail being able to see you while you couldn't see her was to be filed under Things To Avoid. Turning around, she saw the Dragon's jaws open wide as the scaly bitch started to gain on the falling girl...

* * *

The silence back in the stands was one of stunned incredulity. Everyone was focused on the intricate aerial battle taking place above the crowd's head, the girl using every trick she could think of to shift her position before the Horntail could get close enough to munch her.

When the girl came up with a way to slow her fall, so did the Horntail. When she accelerated, so did the Horntail. When she ducked, the dragon followed, clearly angry at not being able to snack on the ape that had dared screw with her.

And then they saw Rose do something impossible.

* * *

Rose was tired. She knew intellectually that she'd spent less than a minute in conscious free-fall. But to her battered body, she felt like she'd spent _hours_ dodging the insane beast in front of her. So it's understandable that one would make mistakes under such circumstances. But understandable does not equal forgiving. Put short, she didn't prepare her dodge quickly enough. Meaning that when she finally went right, the Horntail didn't even need to follow. She saw the massive teeth go over her head. She felt the heated breath start to wash over her. She sensed the jaws unhinging, starting to _close-_

CRACK.

* * *

A battered-looking teen appeared a few metres above the arena floor, the loud detonation preceding the almost instinctual casting of a cushioning charm by the task's referee. She didn't look like much anymore, being pierced by what looked like dozens upon dozens of teeth. In fact, it looked like the girl had taken the majority of the Dragon's upper jaw with her following her apparition. Including the chemical regulation vents that allowed a Dragon to spew fire.

Rose stirred, half expecting to wake up in hell... or her father's office, depending on Death's sense of humour. Instead, she recognised the slag left on the arena floor after the dragon had had its way with it less than five minutes ago. Rose groaned. It certainly hadn't felt like five minutes at the time. She pushed herself up using both arms, or at least she tried to. She feel flat on her face again, surprised at having failed at something that simple. She ignored the pain coming from what felt like a kitchen's worth of knives digging into her back and lifted her right hand to her face. She tried the left... and screamed. Her left arm was gone. One of her arms_ was gone!_

Looking around frantically, she finally caught sight of a hand sticking out of the ground a few metres away the open palm performing a grotesque salute of some kind.

"AND IT LOOKS LIKE OUR CHAMPION SPLINCHED HERSELF! AFTER APPARATING HERSELF TO SAFETY _OUTSIDE OF THE DRAGON'S MOUTH CLOSING ON HER AT THE TIME_! INCREDIBLE!" the shocked voice of the announcer reached her ears as she went to retrieve the missing limb. She picked it up, barely noticing the blood leaking out of the open wound left behind by her splinching. Gazing around the arena in a daze, she finally located her objective. The Egg...

She unsheathed her wand one more time, wary of the far-too quiet stadium, when she noticed the area getting progressively darker...

She looked up and ground her teeth together in rage. The fucking bitch was going to belly-flop her, eh? She wanted to hook her up and skin her alive, did she? Well, she sure had something to say about that. She pointed the elder wand straight up at the descending Dragon, concentrated as much of her boundless reserves of hatred and sadism, twirled the wand in a strange fashion and screamed "Confringo!"

* * *

With a normal wand, such a stunt would have ended with the Dragon enjoying Rose Pancakes for dinner. Unfortunately for the Horntail, Rose was wielding the Deathstick. Instead of being hit by an unfocused blast coming from a stick of dynamite, the Dragon had to deal with the impact of something closer to a shaped charge than the product a simple high-power detonation charm. Put simply, she couldn't.

The explosion threw the Dragon off her intended trajectory, causing the massive beast to impact with the arena cliff wall head-first. The spell also gouged a deep hole into the Horntail's stomach, forcing Rose to wildly dodge the burning chemicals the beast's gut was gushing out onto the arena floor. Not that the Dragon was aware of that, or much else anymore.

She'd seen her sisters being deceived by egg-thieves before her turn came, all of them falling to the strange abilities the ape-things possessed. She told herself that, unlike the other Den Mothers, she would die before allowing herself to feel the shame of losing one of her eggs to the light-weavers.

Twenty minutes later, she lay on the ground, suffering a massive concussion and feeling a deep hole in her gut slowly getting wider as her stomach acids dissolved everything around them. That did not even consider the fact that she was missing most of her upper jawline, taken by the egg-stealing ape as she Moved herself out of the Dragon's maw. She was right, in the end. She would likely die before ever finding out what had happened to her egg.

The world went blurry before resolving itself into the form of the ape-thing, her egg at the thing's feet, one of the ape-thing's arms attached to her belt rather than her body, the tattered bits of second skin barely covering the thing's body. The ape thing raised a strange looking stick straight at her eye and talked in the Serpent's tongue.

"You know," Rose's breathing hitched before she got it back under control, steadfastly ignoring the greying-out world. "you are, by far, the toughest bitch I've ever had to deal with. I guess I should respect you for that, but I don't. You are a stupid bitch for getting yourself killed over an omelette ingredient, and seeing you go the way Darwin intended the stupid to go makes me all warm and fuzzy inside." Then the devil ape smiled as the wand moved ever closer to the Horntail's eye. " Just so you know, the egg you were protecting from little old me? It was a fake." The ape-thing grinned insanely as the Dragon's eyes widened in both rage and indignation. Tricked! She had been tricked into bearing another's young! "Ah, so you _do _understand after all. Well, congratulations you stupid slut. You died defending a fake egg. And with this, I wish you a painful trip to hell. _Avada Kedavra bitch!_"

The bolt of green light entered the Dragon's brain stem via the eye, killing the giant monster in seconds. Rose just looked at the Dragon fighting the touch of Death itself with all the pain, rage and fear such a primal force of nature could bring to bear... and lose before the powers her wand could command. After the convulsions stopped, Rose bent over to pick up the egg (fuck, since when did bending over hurt that much?), stashed it securely into the nook of her right arm and limped back towards the exit.

At the sight of the heavily injured fourth champion making a determined break for the medical tent and, for all intents and purposes, looking like she'd die before making it halfway, Ludo Bagman got off his ass and screamed the end of the task for all to hear.

"POTTER HAS THE EGG! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE FIRST TASK IS NOW OVER!"

Pandemonium erupted in the stands as Rose's body gave in, causing the girl to finally pass out..

* * *

"Albus."

"Yes, Barty?"

"I just received a notification from our friends in the lake."

"Yes, and what did they want?"

"They say that they're pulling out of their role in the tournament."

"WHAT? Why?"

"Something about not wanting to have angry dragon slayers traipsing around their fragile eco-system was mentioned somewhere."

"... Bloody buggering bollocks!"

"My thoughts exactly, Supreme Mugwump Sir."


	3. Sympathy for the Harpy

Sympathy for the Harpy

A/N: _Petunia is one of the least sympathetic characters in the whole HP world. It says a lot about her that her and Vernon rank lower than the story's plethora of genocidal sadists on the 'people I like when reading the books' scale. Seriously, when people like Voldemort, Bellatrix and Lucius more than they like you, then something is going badly WRONG. _

_So one of the biggest challenges in the whole 'take one thing and fix it' genre of fanfiction would be making her a decent person with a single change. And what if that change was Vernon? Below is a little something I wrote around that idea._

**Disclaimer: I got the idea from HPMOR and because Petunia's almost always portrayed as a jealous bitch who can't let go of her past. I got sick of it. Take what's written and use it as you please, since neither of us own or want to claim money for it. At least, I don't. Don't own it, don't want it, that's me. And if you do, well then you can afford proper writers, so why are you even bothering with this stuff?**

* * *

Petunia Evans had come to really hate England. Growing up in the suburbs hadn't been so bad, what with the total isolation she and her peers enjoyed from the problems that seemed to plague Britain and the West. Then came Lily's letter, leaving Petunia alone to face her parents, her peers and life in general without her best friend. The seventies were a bad time for her. Lily got all the attention when it was Petunia that needed it the most. Didn't her sister have magic? Wasn't that enough? Did she really need all those fancy clothes, rare books and expensive jewellery as well? Whenever she brought it up with her mum Rose, the best she got out of her was some vague assurance that she would get the house when her parents conked it. Being a teenage female in seventies Britain was not fun, especially when you never had enough money to do anything.

She finally graduated from St. Trinian's and went to the University of Birmingham to get a business degree and make a life for herself far away from overbearing parents, sneering girls calling her a blonde ostrich and Lily's so-called 'magic'. But just as she'd finished her degree and was ready to move away from all that fuss, that utter pig Vernon got her pregnant! She never even had the time to tell her parents, what with their car going kaboom and turning her mother and father into a fine pink mist. Yes, she got the house, but it wasn't even half paid off and she wasn't getting any job offers outside of those in the exciting world of hospitality, so she would be lucky to keep it for five years at the most.

So she turned to Lily who, it turned out, couldn't help her either on account of fighting a war against magical neo-nazis and being married to the man Petunia distinctly remembered as being called an arsehole by her usually polite baby sister during that whole Hogwarts episode. Not that that stopped Lily from handing over a bar of pure gold to Petunia as a 'sorry sis, but I have more important things on my mind right now.' get-out-of-guilt-free card. Fencing the stuff had been a breeze to her, what with some of her uni acquaintances dabbling in the shadier side of things, so she now had enough money to last for the year or two she needed and could politely tell the Dursley bastard to fuck off and keep his bigoted arse away from her.

And then Dudley was born in June 1980. Petunia took a long, hard look at her life. She had no career, little left in the way of spending money, a small house in Surrey, an estranged sister fighting for her life and one Vernon Dursley starting to breathe down her neck again. Still, she would give it two years to see if life would get better.

It didn't.

The final straw for Petunia came on Halloween night of 1981. She went out to stuff some garbage in the bin only to trip and fall over a basket containing her nephew. Now she had two extra mouths to feed, her sister was dead, killed at the hands of one of the magical neo-nazis and the wizards have apparently washed their hands of the poor child. If Vernon had been there, Harry's future would have been bleak indeed. Without him to turn everyone against the child, though she resented the situation she was being forced into, Petunia still had the common sense not to take it out on a toddler.

She picked up her wailing nephew, laid him down in the cot next to her precious Duddikins and started packing. She still had some family left, though she'd sworn never to do more than visit them, she was willing to break that promise if it meant having people to talk to again. She could not handle two kids and a job alone. Besides, England was finally getting to her. Time to leave.

The house was sold and the three people gone by mid-November. Nobody in the wizarding world took notice.

* * *

A/N: _Next in the random craziness file; Career Tribute and all-round Terrible Person Rose Potter-Snow goes to the Yule Ball. Oh dear._


	4. The Branded One: stirrings of Fate

A/N: _Well, Rose the Career Tribute is kinda kicking my ass at the moment, since I've just written ten fucking pages as a prequel to her second task (it takes place in the forest over three days and will be fairly violent) and have a long way to go yet. AFF and ROT are the same, and I'm just getting to finishing up the next chappie for prophecy. In short, I was getting confused.  
_

_So I decided to take a break from all that, went for a walk around my area and wrote a Harry Potter-Berserk crossover. Because nobody else on this site has done it. Because the parralels of having a hero branded by his nemesis fight against the curse of death planted onto him is too strong to deny. Because fuck it, it'll rock._

**Disclaimer: Belongs to JK Rowling and Kentaro Miura. And, because it ain't a cliché yet if you do it first, Hermione will be Casca. Because I can. You want something different, write it yourself.**

* * *

The Branded One: Stirrings of fate.

He was never a quiet child. From his earliest memories onwards, trouble had dogged his every step. Friends betrayed him, guardians abused him, his cousin hated him and his entire neighborhood feared him thanks to a pack of lies. He honestly could have cared less. He didn't feel anything towards any of his so-called family, former friends and idiotic neighbours. The adults never hit him and the kids, no matter how hard they tried, never got him to emit a sound. He knows there is worse and it's not like normal pain affected him that much anymore, so why react to it?

The most common expression he gives them all is a hard, flat stare.

School is nice enough, he supposes. He is a gifted linguist, according to his teachers, speaking weird variants of French, Spanish and Hindi from day one. He goes on to learn Russian, Hungarian and Chinese in his first year. Physical education leaves him laughing at his instructors. What use is running? You need muscle first, otherwise your life will end at your first locked door. Football? Cricket? What use are those? He never gets good marks, despite being the fittest in the class by the time the first trimester is over. His writing is adequate, his math is average, his music skills are atrocious and shop class is a mixed bag. However, he is a genius when it comes to physics and chemistry. It's uncanny. He doesn't even try hard; it's like he instinctively knows the calculations behind the movement of objects, the way compounds work & interact together... his teacher loves his work. He just looks at her whenever she praises him, not saying a word.

Nobody knows about how he is swinging around a barbell after school, or the weights strapped on his limbs and waist during the day. Even he doesn't know why he does this, really. Only that it feels important.

His relatives have a nasty habit of not feeding him for weeks and months on end when he does something offensive in their eyes. These hissy fits of theirs tended to coincide with a large number of household pets disappearing. Nobody but Dudley makes the connection. Harry eats them raw. He doesn't cook them or skin them properly, just tackles them, snaps their neck and drags them off to the little grove beneath a couple of hedges that mark the limit between Privet drive and everywhere else.

He catches himself staring at his left arm every so often. Sometimes, he wakes up from dreams where all that is left of it is a bandaged stump. He rubs the back of his neck when he's nervous. He occasionally closes his right eye... and forgets to open it again. They feel like old habits, but he knows he's just a kid. How old could such habits really be?

Dudley and his gang get in the habit of chasing him for no reason. They never catch him, no matter how hard they try. Dudley never figures out why, but it's as simple as it is nonsensical to Harry; he can feel it when Dudley's up to something. Like phantom pain, a small jolt in the back of the neck tells him to _move_ whenever he feels it.

Oh, he gets into plenty of fights, but he wins them all. Nobody ever questions just how a child manages to regularly defeat a large group teenagers comprising entirely of teens that are five or six years older than him. Harry just _knows_ how to fight boys that are way bigger, stronger and tougher than he was. It came to him as naturally as breathing, a soothing flame in the back of his mind.

He has a muted conversation with the snake at the zoo. Piers, despite being stupid, rethinks his enthusiasm for seeing animals cavort when a bitter and angry stare from Harry manages to pierce the boy's stupidity shield and force him to take a step back.

Harry gets his Hogwarts letter and wonders who Dudley managed to bribe to pull this off. After finding one such letter stashed in an egg, he wonders whether or not this whole thing was a bit more serious than that.

Hagrid smashes through the door, almost getting skewered by a kitchen knife thrown by little Harry Potter. Harry doesn't say anything, but it's a disappointed silence. He did not have a sword handy, which mean that all he had was a few kitchen knives. Eh, he'd had worse odds. Now, if only he could remember where.

The blonde kid reminds him of someone. Someone he _hates_. Water is wet and the sun is bright, Harry _hates_ someone that looks like Malfoy... but different. Still, he would treat the kid courteously and get out of there ASAP. He knew he'd kill the little idiot if he said too many things likely to be out of line. He asked the lady who was meant to be helping rather than catering to the smug fuck sitting next to him about whether they did custom clothing. He asked about weaponsmiths while he was at it.

The hat was weird. The night was weirder. What was that hat's problem with putting him anywhere but in Gryffindor? And why did it keep begging him not to kill them? It's not like he controlled whether someone needed to be killed or not. And why did all those suits of armour look so familiar to him?

His custom tailoring jobs arrived. He now wore a completely black everything; Black Hogwarts uniform, black shoes, black socks, black underwear, black _everything_. He asks Pomphrey about alternatives to glasses and gets rid of the plast framed bits of glass. He'd taken to wearing a completely black outfit none of the wizards had ever even seen before during weekends, the most distinguishing feature of the lot being the overly long black cloak he wore.

Again, people ignored his strange quirk of swinging two incredibly heavy training swords around in the morning. Occasionally, he'd go and ask one of the Centaur guards for a short spar or two. Firenze liked him. Bane gave him quite the workout. Both may have been sword masters, but still Harry outfought them every time. That came at the price of broken bones and mountains of bruises, but it was all fixed within a few hours.

He was uneasy about the magic he was learning there. He kept thinking that it was wrong somehow.

Hermione really thought that she was about to be brained when, all of a sudden the club connected with something with a smack. She gaped at the boy, dressed all in black, standing over her. Massive club stopped by his bare hands.

"What are you doing, little witch?" he whispers to her even as she sees that one of his legs now had a bone sticking out of it. "Run. I'll be right behind you." She knows it is a lie, but runs anyways.

Harry is in the infirmary. The troll's head was splattered all over the empty bathroom. Hermione couldn't help but shake her head at the boy. It felt so... normal, she guessed. As if this sort of thing happened all the time.

He refuses to show up for quidditch practice, saying that it interfered with his training. Wood reluctantly takes him off the team, stating that, practice attendance or not, Harry _will_ be next year's starting seeker. Harry just stares blankly at him.

Ron is afraid of the boy. Albus is just uneasy with the flat stare he gets from the boy whenever he attempts to read the boy's mind. Snape is flat-out _terrified_ at the sight of him.

Finally, Harry feels a slight, burning pain that he feels quite familiar with. _So it is a brand after all_, a small part of him, still cut off from the rest, recognised. _Wonder where the evil intent is coming from_. In the snows of January, Harry trains himself like a demon possessed.

He encounters a mirror one night. He sees a quiet night, an unblemished neck and tits. It confuses the hell out of him.

One day, several suits of armour and a broadsword go missing. Hagrid keeps crying about the Dragon that had left him. Harry doesn't say a word.

Hermione desperately tries to get close to Harry, trying to unravel the clues about why being near him felt so normal, so easy, so natural. About why, whenever he stares at Padma like a lost puppy, she gets this strange knot in her gut telling her to run from the room and _scream_.

Harry talks to both Padma and Parvati... and is bitterly disappointed with the results afterwards. Thing is, he _still _didn't understand why.

Harry, on one of his training trips into the forest, stumbles across the corpse of a unicorn. His scar starts to bleed. He snarls and leaves the area. This time, Bane doesn't even manage to lay a finger on the Black Demonspawn during their spar.

Hermione and Ron run to him, telling him about the stone, the dog and the thief. He nods and starts getting dressed halfway through their explanation, figuring that, since he knew that there was a target now and where it was, the rest could be expounded upon en route.

Neville tries to stop them. He looks at an armoured & armed Harry. A confused frown appears on his face even as he tells them about his intent to join them.

The Harp is still working, if only barely.

"Devil's Snare!" Neville shouts at the rest of the group. They draw their wands and cast light spells. Harry draws his sword and hacks away at anything that appears in front of him.

In the next chamber, Harry spots the crippled key sitting on the edge of the pack. He asks for a small boost to get it and jumps. His companions mass cast the _leviosa_ at him. Once caught, the keys come to life and seem to become aware of the teens, swarming in a manner Harry recognises as blind rage. He chucks the key at Hermione and starts attacking the swarm, the small amount of upper body armour he'd managed to fit to his size taking most of the keys' maddened charge. A shout and he jumps off the nearest wall, switching direction without losing too much momentum. The door closing behind him leaves him feeling oddly frustrated, almost as if he wanted to go back in and fight. He just shook his head.

The next one was a giant chess set. Ron's sacrifice leaves Harry on the verge of laughter. That's it? He gets knocked out and gets to spend the rest of the time asleep? He notices Neville just quirk a smile and shake his head at the sight while Hermione rolls her eyes.

In the next room, a troll larger than the one from Halloween is shaking itself awake. Harry sprints at the troll, jumps to the side as a ponderous swing of a club comes his way, hamstrings the thing and severs its spine when it lands, howling. The now-trio move on, the two others looking at Harry in awe and confusion while the boy just focuses on whatever's coming next.

"It's a logic puzzle." Hermione's no-nonsense voice echoes through the room as she picks up one of the vials. "This is the one we're looking for." She frowns. "There's only enough for one dose..."

"Right." He sighed. "Hermione, take Neville and go. Ron may still be out of it, if so drag his sorry ass back with you. The first room should be clear of those monster weeds, so go in there and take refuge. Close the door behind you and guard it with your life. Understood?" Hermione just nodded, a determined glint appearing in her eye. "Then go!"

"_Use the boy_" A voice whispered, setting Harry's instincts into overdrive. He overpowered the bindings and jumped out of the way of the next silent casting with incredible speed & grace. "_Fool! Get him!_" Harry drew his sword just as a stunner connected with his torso armour, the _clang_ of the spell pre-empting the massive electrical shock that forced Harry to his knees. He dodged the follow-up stunners and binding spells through instinct alone, desperately trying to locate _that voice_, a voice he'd heard once before. "Master! What do I do? _And you call yourself a defence professor? Pathetic. Hit him with a reducto, _that_ should get through his armor! _Then _stun the brat._"

The voice. The chamber was a box of stone, too simple for hiding spaces and yet this mysterious voice had to come from _somewhere. _"Hey, old man." He wheezed out as he dodged yet another flurry of curses. "How about you tell me about where that special friend of yours is." His only answer was a barrage of explosive hexes & jinxes. "Alright, be that way."

Adjusting the sword's weight lying within his palm, Harry rolled under the next set of curses, jumped over a follow-up jinx before hitting another with the blade of his sword. The smoke and explosion from the blast befuddled Quirrel, causing the next jinx to go wide of its target. This was the moment Harry'd been looking for. He ran forward, hunching over as he maximised the thrust behind the sword. Quirrel saw him coming, panicked and shouted out _protego, _conjuring a strip of golden light in the child's path. His sword was slowed down by the barrier, enough so that the professor had time to leap to the side when Harry's blade powered through the space he'd just vacated. It was not enough. The direction of the blade shifted suddenly, once again putting Quirrel right in the path of the sword. An instinctual _accio _drew the blade off course, letting the professor hope that he'd finally have the opening to stun the little bastard once and for all. Harry sensed the course change, snarled and _jumped_, violently vectoring the blade back on course with its target.

The cut was a shallow one, but it left Quirrel squealing in agony as his eyebrows, nose, lips and chin fell to the ground, leaving nothing but bone behind. The Professor slumped to the floor while Harry relaxed unwittingly, his sword slumping slightly as he eyed the unscious man lying on the ground.

"_Heh heh. Well done Harry Potter. Not many could defeat a full-grown wizard by such _muggle_ means." _the voice came from the defence professor, the blood from the wound he'd inflicted still gushing out onto the stone floor in a crimson torrent. Then, before Harry's very eyes, a new face started to form, the empty sacs sitting in their darkened orifices once more becoming eyes, the flayed muscles reforming themselves, the broken lower jaw and cheekbones morphing into a new shape. Finally, the skin reformed itself, the new layer being noticeably paler than that covering the rest of the body. "Why, very well done indeed!" the man, if it even _was_ a man, laughed as the reformed dull brown eyes turned a reptilian red.

As the man before him started his tirade about once having been the darkest wizard of the age, Harry's scar started to bleed more fiercely. Then, the sword yanked itself out of his grip, the by-then familiar handle slipping at some unseen surprise attack.

"Hah! You should have paid more attention, brat! Just like your father... on the day that I killed him."

Harry's eyes widened. The thing in front of him had proclaimed itself to be lord Voldemort, the man who'd marked him. He hadn't believed the spirit until the sword had escaped his grip, drawing forth an old anger. This man made his scar bleed. He killed families for shits & giggles. He possesses arcane powers not even Hermione has ever heard of. "_Prophet_." He hissed out, the anger radiating off him at odds with the lanky frame of an eleven-year-old. "You killed my parents. You destroyed my life. And for what? You should be dead, but you're not." He gritted his teeth. "You fucking _miracle_." Voldemort's eyes widened at the inhuman howl that followed that statement. The brat was moving too fast for his wand to follow! How could he-

As Harry's padded gauntlets closed around the weak Prophet's neck, he felt another surge of power coursing through him. In his rage and anger, he pushed the power out of his body and straight into the defence professor's, the strange energies burning the husk housing the daemon's spirit. His smile widened as the former Professor's carcass was burned to ashes beneath his grip, not even registering the burning sensation coming from his hands or the fact that his body, perched above a roasting body as it throttled it, was boiling up inside the little armour he'd taken with him. Nothing mattered bar destroying this _thing_.

He passed out after the spirit fled his area, his entire body covered in severe burns. He still went with a smile on his face though.

The Headmaster's reassurances were ignored. Somehow, he knew what that thing was. He knew he hadn't killed it. He knew that, thanks to the mark on his forehead, this fight was far from over. For the first time in his life, Harry knew true despair. The part of him he never really touched upon was screaming in rage, angry and frustrated about something. Something like the feeling Harry got when finishing a chore and immediately being ordered to redo it, but infinitely worse at the same time. Neville and Hermione came to visit him regularly though, so he guessed it wasn't all that bad.

He sighed as he walked through the school's halls. He really did enjoy his time there, but, with the events of the previous week and the knowledge it brought, he could no loner deny that fate had caught up with him once more. Whatever happiness he'd found here would be lost in the battles to come. Somehow, he just knew.

A/N: Heehee.


	5. Harry is Naruto

Crappy Anime crossover oneshots part the first: Harry is Naruto

_A/N: Because I haven't really posted anything recently, here's something my brain came up with earlier this morning. As always, everything else is coming. For now, here's a bit of crack to illuminate your otherwise dreary, dreary lives.  
_

**Disclaimer: Is any of it mine? No. **

* * *

Harry, or Naruto as he was now known as, fled for his life with a smile on his face. Trailing behind the blonde were the normal assortment of Konoha civilians trying their level best to catch up with him and shove a Kunai where the sun don't shine.

Most were intent on skewering him because they truly believed that he was a demon come to kill them all, or at least that's what he gathered from what the mob was screaming at him. The others were trained ninja that he'd managed to catch out in his latest series of pranks. Like it was _his_ fault that a bunch of fully trained jounin couldn't spot a sloppily hidden trap. Or five hundred.

Honestly, Moody would have shit himself if he had been stuck with these idiots. Harry, having spent five decades heading both the Aurors and hit-wizards, saw it as his solemn duty to catch out the stragglers before they went up against one of his Tuesdays.

A Dark Lord coalition, religious terrorist organisations becoming aware of magic, special ops branches doing mercenary work on the side... He'd faced them all in his time and had learned a thing or three about how much easier the boss's workload became if his minions-er, employees were simply too paranoid to die easily. So he pranked the hell out of all the ninjas in Konoha. Especially the ANBU. They were far too stuck up for their own good. Harry had made it Naruto's role in life to remove that iron rod from the ANBU's collective ass whenever possible. With high-yield explosives, of course. They _were_ ANBU after all.

And after the age of five, when Naruto's brain was developed enough to allow for Harry's memories to integrate more comprehensively than just by manifesting in dreams and other such bull, catching the little bugger when he didn't want to be caught graduated from a D rank to C rank mission. By the time he entered the academy, the mission may be classed as a B rank, but ended up in A rank territory more often than not.

And, surprise surprise, painting the Hokage monument in clown colours again did nothing to assuage the general disposition of the populace towards one blonde-haired, orange-wearing, strange swirly tattoo-toting wannabe Hokage. Naruto didn't mind, though. For one, from his point of view, most of the civilians were entitled bastards that lived to make his life hell. For two, he was sick with loving & adoring crowds, fan-girls, sycophants and parasites dogging his every step. For three, he'd never been able to act as a child when he'd been a child the first go around, so being given the freedom to do _anything_, he did just that.

No matter now, he had class in about two hours, so ditching the angry mob took priority. It should be noted that Harry did not get to take his magic with him after dying. Turns out that entities such as Death get _vindictive_ when mortals presume to make anthropomorphic personifications their personal bitches. Shame, she had awesome tits that one. After sixty years triple teaming Ginny, Luna and Hermione, old man Potter could have done with some variety. Wasn't to be, though. The existence of Icha Icha made the transition a bit better.

That, and in Naruto's opinion, chakra _totally_ kicked magic's ass. Harry'd grown up rather quickly as a kid. By the time he was in Hogwarts, he'd been firmly educated in the non-existence of shortcuts, that laziness eventually equals pain and that nothing, _absolutely nothing_ the universe had to offer could beat the power of common sense. And to him, magic was just one giant shortcut waiting to happen. After school, he found that, with a teacher like Hermione and no retarded classmates to pander to, he could learn. And applying those hard-earned lessons the Dursleys had graffiti'ed all over his psyche had led to the late emergence of a prodigy. It was all rather easy, so easy that he settled for doing whatever Hermione's task of the week turned out to be while he studied hard things, like maths or actually relevant & interesting history, to relieve the boredom of doing something that came so easily. He'd become sick of it in the end.

So, when he'd heard of how hard chakra manipulation was, he launched himself wholeheartedly into it. While his control sucked giant dango balls outside of his body, the level of internal control allowed him to do some _interesting_ things. Like, say, jump onto the roof of a building from street level like he'd just done. Or accelerate himself to half the speed of sound without compromising his balance or ability to make accurate jumps when needed. Like he was doing now. This was _so much_ _better_ than magic; it was all effort & concentration over months or even years. No stick-waving retard could faff around with bad latin & what looked like an insulting parody to Parkinson's disease sufferers and do what would take him weeks to get just right.

He left the civilians stranded in the red light district, where a bunch of girls and guys that quite _liked_ the blonde village boy who would come and talk to them when the daily shift change happened were eyeing the mob with an assessing stare.

Naruto, though indeed an incredibly intelligent young boy who delighted in acting like a moron because he could, hated school with a passion. Oh, he could do the math and knew the sciences. That hadn't changed much, which kinda disappointed Harry really. But what really got his goat was anything language-related. He knew the maths & sciences teachers marked him down because they were bastards, but the teachers teaching him how to read & write were the worst. He _needed_ help. He asked anyone he came across. Hell, if it weren't for Iruka, Naruto wouldn't even be able to spell his own name!

For some reason, the world he'd woken up in regarded the Roman Alphabet as a really old set of sealing runes it'd take years, nay, decades to master. He'd taken a gander at some of the books and smiled when he got to reading what was actually being said on the seals themselves. Knowing English and, by extension, the Roman Alphabet, Naruto knew that he'd revolutionise the field single-handedly if he made it that far.

But, while he was a pro at English, he was dreadful at the stuff they used here. It _sounded_ like Japanese with a few strange English & other hokey words of dubious origin making an appearance every now and then. And the writing looked like what Harry remembered as being either the Japanese or Chinese style alphabet. He couldn't recognise which. And he was expected to read and write in this alien language? With no help from either instructors or fellow students? Was it little wonder that he'd flubbed the two previous genin exams just so that he could learn how to read & write in this world?

Still, now Naruto had a firm grasp on the material covered at the Academy, including the stuff discussed at all the more vicious & lethal clubs' meetings he'd dropped in on and observed through a peephole.

Try number three was on the horizon. This time, he was playing for keeps.

* * *

There are several things ninja are renowned for. Stupidly insane combat techniques that should in no way work, but somehow do. Flashy, over the top light shows for some, never even being seen for others. And at least one personality quirk that, in any other professional environment, would render working with them a suicidally dangerous thing to do.

Take note of how much ninja are not renowned for being thin-skinned. Especially when it comes to sexiness.

Now Naruto, having been Harry, was well aware of this. He _had_ been an old pervert for long enough to know what worked and what didn't work when it came to playing the sexiness game. Somehow becoming a metamorphmagus at age 40 had definitely helped that along. Oh, the amount of fun he'd had at his family's expense, feigning complete surprise when the old codger otherwise known as dad, grandpa or asshole turned into a girl at the most random of times. Convincing Teddy to join in had been hilarious.

So he knew what worked, he knew what didn't. But he could no longer shift his shape at will, since it was a _magical_ kekkei genkai. And most henges were disappointingly superficial, with the change not even penetrating the skin. Purely superficial changes wouldn't even fool a perceptive civilian, let alone a ninja. But Harry'd _loved_ taking the piss out of people by changing into a teenage girl, a buxom woman or a blonde bombshell whenever people least expected it. So, a few years ago, he'd set out to create a jutsu that had the ability to redirect the average ninja's blood flow southwards.

He had, just recently, succeeded. It had taken so long because, as skilled as Harry had been at spell-crafting and how good Naruto was at manipulating chakra on the inside of his body, nothing ever worked on even the biggest prude in nin-dom he could find. He'd switch bodies and walk past a nin completely buck naked and the guy never even blinked! No matter how he sculpted the look, the ninja just ignored it and moved along. His jutsu lacked that particular bit of oomph it needed to work.

And he'd accidentally discovered the source of the oomph factor he needed. He'd been in the library one day, researching some new stuff he needed to build more sophisticated chakra sensors for his ANBU traps when he came across the effect of chakra on various pressure points throughout the body. When he read the bit on libido stimulation, a lightbulb went off in his head.

He redesigned his little project again. Now, when he transformed, a bundle of chakra tendrils would shoot out and hit a very specific set of pressure points on the feet, spine and neck of every individual within effect range of the jutsu. It cast a genjutsu over the victim's nervous system, amplifying any feelings of attraction, arousal or lust towards the jutsu user without directly attacking the brain. This would instantly arouse anyone who even has the slightest tinglings of appreciation for the jutsu's body without having to attack their minds and potentially alert the target to something going badly wrong.

Best of all, since it was a complete transformation, the change did not require a sustained trickle of chakra to maintain the new form, meaning that Naruto could repeat the chakra tendril thing without losing his appearance or risking sudden depletion of his reserves.

And that little addition of Naruto's would eventually see his little jutsu become a handy go-to in the seductress's toolkit. Sarutobi Hiruzen was about to find out why.

"Naruto?" The old man asked, feigning ignorance at his favourite source of entertainment's antics. "What-"

"Sexy no jutsu!" POOF!

Of course, given Naruto's insanely huge chakra reserves and his complete lack of control over said reserve's expenditure in a jutsu, the kid's ridiculously overpowered tendrils completely overwhelmed the Sandaime's ability to protect against foreign chakra invading his pressure points. Naruto's jutsu shorted the Hokage's brain, causing the man to lose control of his blood pressure and go rocketing into the wall behind him.

* * *

It was official; one Mizuki was an out and out bastard. Sure, the guy taught a decent enough set of hand-to-hand combat techniques that Naruto was grateful for, but he was also the lowest scum the jinchuuriki had come across in two lifetimes. Even Wormtail had had the decency to wait until Harry was thirteen to be an asshole, but noo, Mizuki-teme just _had _to get an eleven-year-old to do his dirty work for him. Well, mister bastard was in for a bit of a surprise...

" Kage Bunshin no jutsu!"

And boy, what a surprising day this was turning out to be for the Mizuki-teme.

* * *

A horcrux. The fucking Fourth had turned him into a horcrux _again_. And not just any horcrux, oh no, it just _had_ to be the strongest of all legendary monsters to boot. Kyuubi, the demon that levelled entire countries when breaking wind or something along those lines. It all fit; the sealing of half the thing's soul-like essence into a container via the power of Death Magic, only this time it was a _reverse_ horcrux since the caster killed himself in the process. Both the elderly perverted wizard side and the somewhat goofy slacker side of Naruto came to agree on one thing; this sucked.

Still, it explained just how he got away with jumping freaking buildings at age six and how come the hardest, most chakra-intensive jutsu were mastered in minutes while it took him days to get something as simple and straight-forward as a henge down pat. Almost all the henges he made ended up being modified to change his entire body to fit the look he was going for rather than just changing his appearance because of this.

But yeah, back to little old him and his once again tragic backstory. Thankfully, that idiot of a fourth hadn't gotten his way and turned poor Naruto's life into a copy-cat version of Harry's. It was hard enough having to deal with Hero-worshipping fans when you were an adult. Being the subject of a backstory tragic and uplifting enough to inspire fangirls to go after you even before your balls started to drop was one of the few things he'd truly pitied the emo Uchiha heir for. At least Naruto never had to wonder about the motivations & feelings of those around him. Either they pretended he didn't exist or hated him with a blazing passion, which, strangely, fit Naruto's new personality to a tee. No need to worry about catching a friend in a prank since all his friends were prankster slackers everyone hated too. No need to apologise as he had plenty of reasons to prank everyone. No misplaced feelings of guilt if a prank turned out to be rougher than expected. Gunning for an orphaned pre-teen usually pushed people into the 'totally deserved that one' category. So Naruto was prank-happy. He had the means, motive and opportunity handed to him by the ever-so-generous citizens of Konoha and, having been something of an international superstar in an earlier life, had the wisdom to savour the tranquility and sheer moments of guilt-free, undiluted _fun _being an outcast could bring to those who could handle it.

So at least he got something more substantial than a crowded mind and a Voldemort-sized migraine out of the deal this time. His mind was still his own, he had more power than he knew what to do with _and_, given time, he could learn to harness and use Demonic chakra to his own ends. Oh, and according to the Forbidden scroll & the strangely multi-faceted memories he sported of a certain Mizuki-teme being beaten into a coma by an eleven-year-old, whatever his clones learned, he would learn in turn when they dispelled. He smiled as an idea presented itself.

"Sexy no Jutsu!" poof. "Kage Bunshin No Jutsu!" POOF. "Right, go put on some clothes, head over to the libraries and read until you run out of chakra. Go on! Off with you all!"

Muttered variations to the theme of 'yes, boss' accompanied a veritable exodus of Narukos going off to pillage clotheslines clear across Konoha. Thankfully, the clothing didn't dispel when the clones did, so everyone just chalked it up to another series of strange pranks when the clothes just randomly appeared in public spaces.

It took Naruto most of the day to remember that he was walking around as a she. Not that he minded, of course.

* * *

Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. He was on a team with his two favourite targets as partners. With Dog-guy, the only man that could catch him when he was running from Iruka again, as their teacher. And, best of all, Dog-san was late. _Very _late. To a training field assessment. Oh dear. You'd think he would have learned by now.

* * *

After his initial exuberance at having his so-called sensei being fifteen minutes late and, therefore, deserving of some of Naruto's most dastardly crafted traps whose purely mechanical workings came courtesy of one George Weasley's mind, Naruto started to think that maybe, _just maybe_, turning the surrounding woodlands into a prankster's version of the Forest of Death was not a good idea. After all, itching powder was all well and good, but one of his dispelling clones had informed him, in a rather off-handed manner, that they'd run out of itching powder early on. And had switched to gunpowder and powdered nitroglycerine concentrate instead.

For all that Sakura was a rabid fan-girl that deserved Naruto's attempts at shoving her infatuation right back in her face and that Sasuke, several years after losing his parents, could no longer claim this as an excuse to brood and, therefore, needed to have one delivered to him courtesy of the Uzumaki brat, blowing them up during a test would probably not go over too well with their wannabe sensei. So he sighed, dispelled his old clones and sent off a bunch of new clones to disable the more lethal traps before the two geniuses he was paired off with managed to decorate the surrounding forest with their intestines.

One of his new body's spider senses picked up a new disturbance coming from behind his group, the barely perceptible sliver of chakra, though blending quite nicely with the environment, not posing a challenge to someone who'd honed his perception into a finely crafted, chakra-enhanced tool. Naruto smirked. Now the fun _really _began.

* * *

Kakashi was quite impressed with his team so far. For being a 'dead last', Naruto's speed and blunt stubbornness was proving to be more of a challenge than he'd anticipated. Sakura, despite being near useless when it came to taijutsu and nowhere near good enough in anything to affect her possible future sensei, still showed a resolve that promised quite a bit. Sasuke was, by far, the most impressive though. For all the good the other two did, it was clear to Kakashi that the Uchiha carried the offensive. The others would disappear into the canopy, wait for one of the other two to distract him and then dart in, the strikes proving to be good enough to maybe hit a chuunin every once in a while.

Sasuke, on the other hand, was already good enough to go toe to toe with a chuunin. Oh, and he conjured fireballs twice Kakashi's size too. That helped.

Of course, this meant nothing to the team, who were too busy trying to land something akin to a killing blow on Kakashi while the prospective jounin A) knew that they were coming and B) knew what they were aiming for. As most Iwa assassination teams could attest, the copy nin was scary enough when you ambushed him with ten jounin of equal rank to his on your side. For three brats fresh out of the academy, coming even close to touching him was an accomplishment in and of its-_clickBOOM!_

"Sensei! Hey, Sensei!" a blurry voice called to him, shaking a shoulder that felt like it was on fire. He opened his good eye. Oh. His shoulder _was_ on fire. Never mind. "We got those bells you asked us to retrieve. Do we pass?"

"Agrruhhh..." the charred mess that was going to be their jounin-sensei gurgled at the orange-looking blur, the statement that he intended to use ('fuck off and die') not translating well for someone who'd just got hit by a trap filled with hyper-compressed itching powder. He passed out wondering just how the hell the brat had gotten the itching powder to ignite and explode using no chakra at all.

* * *

Finally, after months and months of D-rank missions, the first C rank came team seven's way. The drunk made a perfect pranking target during the mission.

* * *

"Wait a minute, you're not a girl!"

The teenage transvestite stared at him before lowering his eyes. "And how can you tell that, exactly?"

"Ah, a day or two skiving off the academy and hanging out in the absolute last place my senseis would think to look taught me many things." Horrible, horrible things.

The girl-guy in front of him just kept staring at the strange blonde. "... Interesting. But how did you do that so fast? You've been here for a little under a minute."

"Simple, I had to learn how to spot inconsistencies when I transformed, of course!"

"Transformed how exactly?"

"Well... SEXY NO JUTSU!" Haku's jet of overpressurised bodily fluids propelled the pseudo-girl headfirst into a tree.

"TEACH ME! TEACH ME AND I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT!"

"... Okay"

_Later that night_

"Oh Zabuza-samaaaa..." a sultry female voice called out, causing the Demon of the Mist to whimper while he ran for his life. Hopefully, he'd run into Haku soon and off the old bridge builder quickly. If not, he'd just leg it to Iron country and hang out there for a few years. Being chased by a Mist Succubus was exactly why his momma had warned him against becoming a missing nin. Haku could take care of himself for now, but not with that... _thing_ chasing him. He hoped his young charge would come to forgive him one day.

* * *

Omake: Messing up the shiki fuuin.

"_Shiki Fuuin!_"

A ginormous bang lifted Orochimaru and the Hokages off their feet. Where the jutsu took effect, a young man with spiky orange hair and what looked like a man-sized knife stared down at Hiruzen. "You called?"

"Err yes, uh, could you take care of those two and Orochimaru for me, please?"

The redhead took one look at the three others and sneered. "Two involuntary resurrections and one full possession by a guy with a snake fetish. Huh." The sneer turned into a grin. "Just like old times." Following a quick dispatch, the young captain known as Ichigo Kurosaki, who was secretly the reincarnation of Ron Weasley, stiffened as he felt a familiar Reiatsu spiking off in the distance.

"_**HARRY POTTER**_!" The Shinigami Captain hissed as he tightened his grip on his sword. "I had to wait until I reached the afterlife to find out that _he_ fathered my children... **Bankai!**" All the Sandaime saw as he lay there was a black blur as the shinigami phased through the barrier, his vague scream of '**I'm coming for you, you fucking bastard!**" fading off into the distance. Sarutobi lay there, happy that, for once, _he_ wasn't the one about to get it with both barrels.

Naruto felt his danger senses tingling as he faced off with the two-tails, dismissing it as just another warning of what he was about to face. If only poor Harry knew. Having Tom Riddle copy his looks and join Seireitei under the guise of Aizen Sosuke really didn't help either.

_Yep_, Naruto thought as he squared off against the giant monster bearing down on him while his spidey senses went nuts about something he couldn't identify quite yet, _just another tuesday for good ole me._

* * *

_A/N: I regret nothing! Not even being dressed in a tutu whilst writing this! Bwahaha!_


	6. The career tribute, p 3 17: forest war

The Dancing Forest war

**Day One**

Rose was looking out over the forest, following her fellow contestants' measuring gaze as they surveyed the veritable sea of green laid out before them. They'd known about the fact that they would be spending a whole week chasing after something valuable to them, but the implications of that statement seemed to only really sink in now that they were gawking out over the canopy stretching out into the distance.

"Contestants!" A loud voice boomed out, the echoes reverberating over Rose and the crowd gathered at the food of the platform she and her colleagues were occupying. "Welcome to the second task of the triwizard tournament! As you may have guessed, this task will be taking place in the Forbidden Forest. It was once known as the dancing forest, a communal melting pot where members of all sapient magical races lived together in peace, protected by the Forest and its wilder inhabitants. This lasted until the Seventh Goblin War, where Grimhammer the Unlucky razed the Dancing Forest to the ground. In its place, the death rattle of thousands of incredibly powerful magical beings cast a curse on the forest. Since that day, none who entered on one side of the forest have ever come out the other. This is the forest you are to traverse today. Your task is to retrieve a hostage, located at the other end of the forest, in the space of seven days. You are to present yourselves back here on noon in seven days' time with your hostage alive and in one piece if you are to successfully complete this task."

The voice cleared its throat. "Now, given the size of the Forest, making just one of you go by yourself with only a wand is unfair." Rose sighed in relief. At last, _some_ good news... "So we have provided you all with a map! Good luck to you all. May Merlin have mercy on your soul. Begin!"

Rose walked up to Dumbledore, her expressionless face meeting the sad twinkle in the old man's eyes. She really couldn't tell whether it was disappointment at her attitude, misplaced sympathy for putting her through this or some bizarre form of disapproval at the olive drab uniform she was wearing. She didn't care either way. She snatched the map out of the old man's hands, went down the steps past the crowd and started running towards the edge of the woods. She could hear the roar of the crowd as she and her fellow participants started the task.

* * *

A few minutes in saw Rose stop and look around the forest floor. "_Point me Swag Bag._" She grinned as she followed the directions in which her wand spun.

* * *

"Right then!" Cedric said, cheerfully roasting a large rat over an open fire. "Who wants lunch?"

Fleur gagged on her own bile, eyeing the skinned rodent with revulsion and a degree of hunger. "Zat ees... Deesgusting."

Victor just eyed the thing. "Dibs on the breast."

Cedric just smiled at his two companions. "Alright. Now then... ideas?"

"About what?" Krum asked. "We just follow the map."

"If zees ees about food, I propose zat two of us 'unt while ze ozzer scouts a'ead."

"Huh?" Cedric asked, confused. What the hell did the girl just say?

"Fleur." Viktor snapped. "Drop it. There's nobody but us out here."

"Oh alright." The girl huffed. "As long as you don't mention back there."

"What? Why did you fake your accent?" Cedric blurted out.

"Because, at Beauxbatons, I am surrounded by bitches. I wanted to be somebody other than 'little miss perfect' for once. Actually be able to talk to my fellow colleagues as an equal sufferer of 'ogwarts's legendary lack of 'ospitality. But no, now I am ze champion of L'institut de Beauxbatons. Now, zis fucking accent is getting in the way!" she just sighed. "Too late to change, now. _Putain_."

"Well," a voice said from the bushes. "Sucks to be you."

"Rose!" Cedric bellowed, frantically looking around for the psychotic beanstalk. "Uh, where are you?"

A blur dropped down from the branch overlooking the little impromptu camp they'd built themselves. Viktor looked amused when Fleur managed to jump into the bushes on reflex alone. Cedric just sighed. It was the Hufflepuff seventh year dorms all over again. "Hello there. Care for some lunch?" He said, shoving the half-cooked rat in Rose's face.

"Ew no! I'll stick to my rations thank you."

Fleur perked up. "Rations! Can I have one?"

"Wow, blondie can talk! Good for you. And no, screw you. I just came by to say hi and see how you guys were doing."

"We're doing well, thanks." Cedric smiled, deliberately ignoring the petrificus a quick-thinking Krum cast on the transforming Delacour girl. "Just, you know, sitting down and having lunch."

"Ah, okay. Well, in that case..." She stood up, biting down on the energy bar in her hands. "Good luck! Oh, and I have a surprise for you guys behind that tree over there." She pointed out a large elm on the edge of the clearing. "I suggest you check it out."

* * *

It was roughly mid-afternoon if you went by the sun's position in the sky when Rose finally arrived at the farthest point at which she'd penetrated into the forest over the winter holidays. A few weeks earlier, she'd come across a precipice when escaping a pack of megaspiders, a twenty-metre drop leading straight into the waters of a running river. Back then, the river was small, sluggish and with its river banks covered in ice.

But, with spring a few weeks away, the timid little stream had transformed into a raging torrent carrying both large amounts of loose soil as well as razor-sharp shards of ice downstream. Even if she _did_ find a way down to the river's banks, she'd have a hard time finding a way across that didn't involve the risk of either drowning or death by hypothermia.

She sighed. Maybe the map had something she could use.

Her position was currently far too exposed to allow for a risk-free break. She moved back into the forest and followed the river upstream.

* * *

"Did you find anything?"

Cedric sighed as he looked down at the map in silent despair. They had a hundred miles of forest and grassland to cross before reaching their destination, namely an abandoned outpost sitting in the middle of an area marked out as 'wasteland'. This wasn't exactly a reassuring destination at the best of times. It wasn't helped by the fact that the grasslands also happened to be in the middle of a centaur freehold, an area that wizards & witches were barred from setting foot upon. Then there were the goblins, the acromantula, the various other dangerous inhabitants whose territory the three wayward teens were going to have to cross.

And, finally, there was Rose Potter, the Dragon Slayer. The supposed saviour of the wizarding world. The rumoured murderer of the Malfoy heir. Heiress to both the house of Potter and the house of Black. Oh, and a psychotic killer too. The girl whose little surprise gift consisted of a stripped centaur carcass with the best pieces off the horsey bits stuffed into a sack and labelled 'enjoy'. The upper body was gruesomely mutilated, with the hairline, the eyes, the tongue and the ears cut off from the face while the centaur's upper torso had been cut open near the part where the flank and the torso connected. He didn't _dare_ try and find out if there were any human bits mixed into her little contribution to the group's diet.

But he put that at the back of his mind for now, having gotten over it after regurgitating his rat roast into the bushes. Right now, he had to find a way down that blasted cliff. He'd seen the trail Rose had left, but decided that following after the crazy witch should be their last choice rather than treating it as the best one. She might take exception to them following her, after all. Not to mention that the group would be caught up in whatever mess she left behind herself too.

Finally, the charmed map yielded results. A thin line crossing the river farther downstream. A bridge.

"Yes." Cedric told a frustrated Viktor. "Bridge, coupla clicks downstream. Bonus, got a set of stairs leading down to the embankment. Coupla hours walk, but we can make it across before dusk this way." Viktor patted him on the back. Cedric smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

None of the trio noticed the slight rustle in the underbrush behind them.

* * *

Rose cursed as she waded through the knee-deep water, somewhat thankful that the very cold that numbed her legs was also preventing said legs from becoming a pair of leech-infested stumps. Her boots waded forwards, the only indication that she was indeed moving her legs right then coming from the soft crackle the partially iced-over water surface made as her shin pushed the crystalline membrane aside.

She'd been lucky, really, stumbling across an area where the riverbed shallowed out at a few centimetres below water level, sufficiently dispersing and calming the river that Rose could cross to the other side without having to fear being dragged along by the otherwise fierce currents. Of course, that meant that Rose was now stumbling along on frozen limbs across a murky bit of marshland while wondering whether she'd make it to dry land before the sun made its final plunge below the horizon.

Though, given the brown-on-black colour scheme she was surrounded with, one could excuse her for thinking that it was already nighttime. It would be easy to mistake the frost covering the trees around her to be some type of moonlight while the thick canopy and dark waters could easily fool the befuddled into thinking it was nighttime. Only the few golden rays of a twilit sun piercing the canopy nixed the idea, what little light hitting the ground being devoured and refracted by the brackish surface of the diseased pool she forced herself to wade through. Yet she still persevered with a smile on her face, memories of the New Louisiana reclamation campaign rising to the fore.

According to the map, the ruins of an old house lay on the other side of this area. She hoped she made it while there was still some light left. No point in heading for shelter if you no longer could see it without running into it first. The crackle of the water's icy surface parting under the momentum of her booted legs was the only sound in the frozen swamp.

* * *

In the meantime, Viktor was staring at the bridge. Or rather, what was left of it.

"_Voi pizda!_ Cedric! Is there any other crossing point marked on your map?_"_

"_Yeeeees..._ But it's about thirty miles away. We may be able to make it by tomorrow, but I highly doubt it."

"And why is that?" Krum asked a tad impatiently.

"Because it's in the middle of forest goblin territory." Fleur offered. "There's even a helpful hint to stay away on the map..."

Krum went back to swearing. "_ublyudok dochʹot·stalykh byk_!_ ghoris mamis aralegitimuri spermis shemt'khvevis! Verdammte scheissbruecke!"_

Cedric and Fleur spent their time staring at the ruins of the bridge. "So, it looks like the first five or so feet are still intact..." Cedric said. "I think I have an idea."

"And what would that be?" Said the Veela to the Hufflepuff.

"The first one gets _depulso_'ed across by the two others. The second one is _depulso'_ed by the one on this side while the one on the other _accio_'s the crosser towards them. The last one is then _accio_'ed across by the other two. Think that could work?"

The Veela let out a low 'hmm' as she did some mental arithmancy while looking at the diminishing light in the sky and the irate Bulgarian who was so busy swearing in mangled Russian that he was missing the decisions being made without his input.

"Maybe, but at this point, it's worth a try."

* * *

The ground around the ruined house was surprisingly solid for such a water-logged area. What was marked as a house on the map had obviously been something more like a large inn than a single household residence. Rose recognised the outline of what was left of the stables, the main entrance, a large open space that might well have been a tavern and a row of caved-in rooms on the second floor that were too uniform in their design to indicate personal habitation.

She closed her eyes and gripped her wand, letting the influx of surrounding magics tell her what her other senses couldn't. It seemed that the inn still had a working wardstone pumping out an ever-clean and perimeter chime ward. If there was anything in there, they would know Rose was coming.

She dropped her bag onto the solid ground, twisting her head this way and that in order to catch anything trying to sneak up on her while her hand fumbled around inside the heavily expanded backpack. "Ah, right. Pistol! Three pistol clips!" Four distinct sets of thunks sounded as a warm weight settled into her palm. She pulled her hand out, the semi-automatic feeling like an old friend in her hand. She tested the weight again as the other hand stashed the clips into her pant pockets. She loved magic sometimes.

She double-timed her way across the inn's front yard, hoping that what remained of the hedges concealed her from whatever was likely to be inside the house. Hitting the side wall, she pulled back the trigger on her pistol and made her way to the backdoor entrance. The small, well-maintained garden caught the girl by surprise. There were a lot of what looked like weeds growing in one half of the garden, but the other half made her survival-oriented conscience salivate in anticipation. The nutrients provided by the ripe tomatoes alone would be worth the energy needed to kill whatever dwelled inside the house.

The door, rickety as it was, posed a problem to Rose. Breaching a door and clearing a house was something Rose had done at least once a week during her two-year stint with the militia. Rebels and terrorists were a dime a dozen in the forests of Panem, and the barbarian tribes of the east and west coast weren't all too familiar with the concept of borders. She could clear the ruins of an apartment block with nothing but a revolver if she had to, but she generally didn't need to do it by herself. And she doubted that whatever thing used the inn as a refuge would brave the marshland in order to go after her if she stole an onion or five... Still, she needed as much of the stuff inside as she could get. She had the potions and balms packed to treat anything from frostbite to petrification, but that didn't count for shit if she didn't get any clean water to supplement her current supply as well as whatever other stuff she could pack & carry with her. She sighed, unslinging her backpack and stashing it behind a nearby bush. Whatever was in there, she was going to kill it & take its stuff.

* * *

The three contestants ran, the roars of whatever was pursuing them heard even over the harsh panting as the three's mad dash took them ever closer to what they could only hope would prove to be their salvation.

Cedric chucked another blasting charm at a tree he was passing, not even bothering with the incantation. The weakened _reducto_ did its job, the bisected trunk slowing down the beast just that little bit more, granting Cedric precious milliseconds, time that could mean life or death at this point.

He ducked as a fireball flew by, getting so close that it blistered his skin on the way. He couldn't afford to yell at the stupid bint just yet. All that could wait until they reached the guard tower.

He risked looking up at the dense canopy. What little gaps there were showed a deep purple-crimson cloud cover, the light of the evening not even penetrating the dense carpet of leaves. He had no idea about where the bluish light they were navigating themselves with was coming from, only hoping that whatever it was didn't turn out to be predatorial.

He dodged to the left, hoping to confuse his attacker somewhat. This whole thing was hopeless if they didn't make it in five minutes. After all, the things one sees in daylight are nothing compared to that which lurks outside at night. He tossed another _reducto_ at a tree, making damn sure not to lose sight of Krum's pilot light.

Suddenly, Fleur appeared at his side in her deceptively lethal avian guise and grabbed hold of his travel robe. The last thing he felt before passing out was the sensation of being squeezed through a tube full of lava.

* * *

The back entrance lit up under the glare of Rose's flashlight, the pistol aimed down the beam's centre and into what looked like the old kitchen area. Rose moved swiftly, her breathing getting harsher as she adjusted to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She swept the harsh artificial light over the room.

The kitchen was a surprisingly large space, enough to outfit two inns of similar size. There were three large cooking areas, each with its own set of utensils still visible under the moss & accumulated debris the ward couldn't clean off. There were also three sets of basins with plumbing enchantments rather than actual plumbing, proving to be surprisingly modern to Rose's eye. There was the tiling obscured by moss, there was the igniter for the stove that had already rusted beyond repair, there was the oven, impeccably clean and cooking away- _wait_. An unsupervised pot of food? Out here? Riiight.

Rose started to hear her heart beat as her blood pressure spiked. The osbcuring beam of her flashlight gave way to a far sharper perception of the world, the mouldy ceiling showing itself to be at odds with the impeccably cleaned tiling that could be found covering the food preparations area. Someone was in here and they knew she was there too.

Someone that was behind her.

_Oh fuck-_ she was rolling on the mildew-encrusted floor before she even realised she was under attack, a silvery blur moving across the space her neck had occupied a fraction of a second ago. She lifted the flashlight up and shone it straight at her attacker, hoping against hope that it was just a contestant that had gotten way too cocky. No such luck.

It took the shape of a human woman, but looked more like someone's idea of a realistically rendered naked doll than anything else. Black eyes glittered in a face with no other visible features, the whole body naked yet with none of the bits naked bodies were supposed to have. No nose, ears, nipples, genitals, hair, blemishes, scars or even pores were visible in the harsh glare of the electric light. A small amount of stubble sat where a normal human would have a head of hair available, far too short for Rose to figure out just what colour it took.

The part of her brain where her wand normally hung out activated. _Monody_. Avatar of tragedy, song of death, final breath given shape... there were many colourful names for the thing, but the end of the tale was the same; it decapitated its victim and tricked the headless body's magic into feeding the Monody's mitosis. In the end, if you lost, you had two hungry Monodies and a ready source of fresh meat where once you had one hungry Monody and live prey. She memorised all that even as she raised her gun and fired.

SNAP. The monody screamed at her despite not having a mouth, tightening its grip on a strange blade made of bone & silver as its shoulder disintegrated... and reformed just as quickly. Rose cursed loudly as she was forced to roll away from yet another lunging swipe by the thing, her flank being clipped by a swift kick the monody had given her mid-roll. SNAP SNAP. She fired twice more, hoping against hope that hitting it in the heart and groin would be enough. No such luck, though the heart shot slowed down the thing's attacks significantly.

_The eyes_. Her wand whispered to her, flashes of the wand's former masters fighting monodies going through her mind. _Go for the eyes_. Rose agreed and fired off another two rounds at the thing to buy herself some breathing space. SNAP SNAP.

_Alright. _She thought, taking stock of her situation as she jumped over a kitchen table. _Three bullets, no time to reload, two targets._ She nodded to herself and turned around.

The naked humanoid thing screeched as it lunged yet again, blade levelled at Rose's face. Rose fired, making sure the eyes filled her crosshairs. SNAP. The area where the Monody's nose would have been caved in, a large spray of some kind of bluish red liquid splashing out behind it. It stopped suddenly, some unseen mouth making a strangled moaning noise as the thing dropped its blade in shock. Rose wasted no time, propelling her lithe frame forward. Stopping suddenly as she came face to face with the monster, she converted the momentum into a swinging kick, taking the dazed thing in the side of its temple, causing it to overbalance and hit the kitchen's grimy stone tiling.

That was apparently enough to force it out of shock, as the monody's whole body spasmed violently when it hit the floor and its howl of pure fury suddenly turned into a magic-infused sonic attack. Her ears ringing painfully, Rose dropped to the ground like a puppet with her stings cut, the demonic thing she was facing slowly getting up. She looked for her flashlight and cursed. The attack shattered the lightbulb, leaving her to fight the strange creature with a rapidly diminishing ambient light source. She dared not channel magic in these marshes, too many ideas about what the things lurking in these areas did to hunt each other revolving around magic in the first place. That left-_ the sword_. She looked around before seeing it, the bone handle of the strange blade protruding from underneath a broken chair.

She staggered up onto her feet, her wand helping to fight the nausea she normally associated with sea sickness. The monody was almost slower than she was, indicating that that attack it'd used was close to the limit of what it could do. Both noticed the other eyeing the sword greedily, surprised and frustrated that they'd been seen. Rose started the plunge for the blade first, the monody dashing madly in an effort to nullify the head start. Finally, it outpaced Rose and dove for the blade made out of its progenitor's body. It reached the blade and tugged it free of the rotten wood it'd lodged itself in, a feeling of triumph overcoming the monster's mind. With this, it could defeat the intruder. With this, its den would be saf- _thump_clack.

The monody blinked at a strange sight. Its sword was once again trapped, this time underneath the black leather boot that the intruder wore. It looked up, straight into the barrel of a gun.

SNAP. The first shot took out the monody's left eye, its deafening shriek of pain going unheard by the already deaf girl. The monster clutched at its eye, the sheer pain having caused it to flip around and hit the floor again. Rose calmly picked up the blade, taking note of the blue-red spray that decorated it. She flicked the sword once, twice, making interesting patterns on the stone floor, and advanced on the writhing form lying at her feet. She cocked her right foot back and swung it at the thing's face, hitting it right in the empty eye socket. The thing lay still, probably passed out from the pain that'd been inflicted on it. Rose didn't care as long as the thing didn't move for a few seconds. She aimed her pistol carefully and squeezed the trigger. SNAP.

The Monody stopped moving altogether. Rose cut off what was left of its head, just to be sure. She quite liked the bone sword. She decided to keep it. There were still more areas to explore, after all.

_End Part 1/7_


	7. The Pit TDK HP cross

The Pit

* * *

_A/N: Okay, this is a quick tribute to The Dark Knight Rises. And why am I doing this, do I hear you asking? Because that's the film that taught me that Christopher Nolan has balls made of Uranium. Why do I think this? Well, it's because this is a superhero movie... where the bad guys win. That's right, win. Gotham is trashed, Wayne Enterprises is gutted and Batman is dead. But there is good news! Which you won't learn about until you watch the film. And this is not a spoiler, since it doesn't even tell part of the story._

_Anyway, this is a quick crossover with Harry Potter because, well, fuck it. Everything can be crossed with Harry Potter. Am I'm a compulsive crosser, so there._

_So, in this one, Voldemort wins before the prophecy is even uttered, James is killed and Lily is sentenced to the Pit, which is the part of Azkaban that houses those criminals immune to the Dementors' effects. Those that go down there have their magic ripped out of them before being lowered down into a cylindrical jail where the only way out is through the hole they entered. To get there, you have to climb the jail's walls until you reach the top, after which you still have to swim off Azkaban Island if you intend to escape. Lily gets sent down there whilst being pregnant with Natalie (Little Mouse) and gives birth in prison. The lack of magic and the stresses of pregnancy mean that she's barely clinging to life for her child's sake, teaching her what she can to survive_.

_Oh, and grab the OST to the film if you can. It rocks me socks._

* * *

**Fear**

Little Mouse looked up at the circle of blue the others called the sky. It was a cold day outside, whatever they meant by that. Little Mouse had never been outside, after all. The only reason she knew it was cold outside was because it was freezing in the prison she was in. When they said it was warm outside, The Pit was like one of the bread furnaces. When the others said it was cold, then the corridors and stairways became thick with hidden ice spots and black frost crystals growing out of the walls.

She didn't mind either way. If it was too cold, she tapped into the Red to warm herself. If it was too hot, she tapped into the Blue to stop herself from sweating. She even gave some to Mother when she felt that the older lady got too hot or too cold. She never told anyone about these colours she tapped into. Mother was too sick to care while the Doc looking after Mother didn't need to know. And she knew that telling the others living down here with her was a stupid idea, so she didn't. And how would she explain it anyway? It didn't sound like what Mother called magic. What was it?

Little Mouse laid such thoughts aside, concentrating on the bread dough on the table in front of her. Little Mouse and Mother shared a cell together, which meant that they only got enough food for one to feed two people. Doc would bring some more when he was sober enough to remember, so she had to make what little food they got count if she wanted Mother to be strong enough for the treatments.

The small table was just right for her size and made a decent enough surface for beating the dough, but she had to spend a lot of time picking bits of veneer out of the yellow-coloured substance when she was done. Still better than the floor though. Took longer to clean if she had to use the floor again. She sighed, looking over to Mother and the Doc.

Mother was once a pretty lady, according to Doc. She'd had to look up the word 'pretty' in Doc's dictionary, but she'd found that Mother was still pretty according to the definition offered by the dictionary. Red hair, high cheekbones, green eyes and freckless... if you looked past the wrinkles and bags uderneath the eyes, Mother was still very pretty in fact. Doc always called her Lily, which was silly. Mother was Mother. There was no other like her in The Pit apart from Little Mouse. All the others were what Doc called Males, which made no sense to Little Mouse. Weren't there supposed to be more Females than just Mother and her then, if they weren't unique? Doc had just shaken his head at her for that, telling her to focus on her maths work instead of being a brat.

Doc was a balding old man with toys and stuff Little Mouse could use to learn about things. Some things were just crazy. What _was_ a tree supposed to be, then? What was its purpose? And meat came from these mystical things called 'animals'? Little Mouse was sure that they were making this up as they went along, but she indulged them so that she could get ahold of those travel books Doc passed around the Pit sometimes. She really liked the one about Austria. Apparently, they didn't speak her language! Language, that was a strange idea down here too. Mother, Doc and the others talked to her in something they called English, but nothing else. The strange mirror with pictures and sounds coming from it spoke a completely different language when it was switched on, but that didn't happen too often, so she just thought that they were talking in words she hadn't learned yet. She wondered what other languages would sound like if she could speak them. Her stomach focused her back on the task at hand.

Knead, knead, thump. Knead, knead, thump. Thump, thump, turn over. Pick out splinters. Roll, roll, roll until you get a ball. Knead, knead, thump. She felt herself sweating underneath the heavy coat she was wearing. Mother groaned in pain. Doc packed up his gear, his gait showing that he was under the influence of whatever it was he was taking. He nodded once at her and once at Little Mouse before leaving. Little Mouse just raised a hand and waved goodbye, her mind on other things a million miles away from her little world.

She's drawn out of her daydreaming when Mother gasps in fear. She turns to look at her mother when she, too, starts to pale.

The door to her cell was unlocked.

* * *

Every single denizen of The Pit deserved to be lowered there. Murderers, rapists and torturers were housed in Azkaban proper, feeding the dementors day in, day out. The Pit was designed to be a worse sentence than that.

Prisoners of The Pit have such black souls that there is nothing there for the dementor to feed off, granting these people an immunity of sorts. The worst deeds and memories are happy ones to such people, their very humanity shrivelled away by whatever acts put them down there in the first place. Such people deserve a _special_ sentence, something that makes Azkaban the preferred option with or without dementors patrolling the prison. They came up with the Pit.

Whereas Dementors prey on your guilt and your despair, The Pit preys on your hope. The entrance is open, unguarded and inviting. There are even tools available to help you on your way. All you have to do is get there. And it looks oh so easy from your cell! There are plenty of handhelds for you to hold onto and the jump looks manageable. Hell, the rope will stop you from dying if you make a mistake too! Nothing to lose, right.

Except nobody has managed to make it out, not since the days of Grindelwald anyway. And the more the inmates try (and boy, do they try), the more the whole prison falls into despair at their failure. Dementors only fed off your despair. This prison generated it, amplified it, honed it into a razor-sharp edge that hacked away at the prisoner's sanity.

But fear of failure is not on Little Mouse's mind as she stares down at the man who'd just thrust her onto the climbing platform, his veiled face turned to look at her as she stares back at him in horror.

"Goodbye" he says before being overwhelmed by the mob he'd been stopping. The mob that had come for her mother. The mob that was now coming for her.

No, failure was not on her mind right then. Fear of death was.

She climbed.

* * *

Her first breaths as a free girl overwhelm the small amount of Red she was tapping into not sufficient to shield. The very air seemed to freeze her lungs, causing her to gasp in pain at the ice forming in her throat. But how! The sky had been clear! The massive amount of Red she reflexively draws into herself sets her coat on fire, causing her to yelp and roll around in the waist-deep snow that bordered the hole in the ground she'd called home less than an hour ago. She dared not cry. Not now. Not while any tears she shed would freeze over and hurt her face. She forced it all down and looked around.

Everywhere she looked, all she could see was just a vast field of white. She closed her eyes, looking for a Colour, any Colour, that would tell her where to go. She saw a large castle outlined in Black, a colour far darker than the mere lack of colour she could see behind closed eyes. The Pit was a yawning hole of Red and Grey surrounded by what looked like a field of Beige. All around her, she could see a vast field of deep blue, the colour of water. Maybe it was buried under the ice, just like it was down home? Mother used to scold her whenever she walked on the water when it was covered by ice, though the Pit's water's Blue was lighter than the Blue she was seeing around her. Mother...

She shook herself, straining her not-eyesight for the slightest hint of a Colour she could head towards. Suddenly, she caught a glint of yellow on the horizon. Trusting her feet-senses, she set foot on the ice, slowly walking towards the yellow as she finally allowed herself to think of Mother, Doc and the Goodbye man.

Mother's last words rang through her skull. Find Sirius Black.

* * *

A/N: _If I make something out of this, it's not going to be for a while. For one thing, I'll have to wait until more people watch the movie before they actually get who I am talking about. For two, I have no idea about when this fic will take place. Before or after Little Mouse is 17? For three, this is set in a post-Voldemort dystopia that, even while it now tolerates Muggleborns as necessary, the purebloods rule and everyone else is pretty much stuck in crime-ridden slums. If you've watched the film, take the rhetoric ushered by a lot of people and transpose them into a neo-feudal society... See how this muddies the waters? And, finally, there's the problem of just how close a cross we'll be talking about here. Do you simply transplant the HP characters & setting into the TDKR plotline, plain vanilla style? Or do you pick and choose what happens? Do you pick other events & characters to drop into the story (Joker vs Voldie, Rhas-al-ghul as hidden enemy etc) or go off the deep end by turning HP characters into the Rogue's Gallery? So many questions to be answered..._

_So feel free to copy this and use. Hell, ask nicely and I'll make a formal challenge out of this. 'Til later Possums! Toodles._


	8. The dancing forest war, day 2

_There is a song that echoes throughout the universe, unseeing, unheard, but it's there. It is said that none alive are capable of hearing the song, that, if you do hear it, death will come for you. Humanity does not have this legend. Humanity does not know. Yet. But when they finally start spreading through space, things will change. The legend of the song will be born. For, in space, even the unseen and unheard leave traces behind... And one day, humanity will hear it, all of it. So mote it be._

Musings of the Canters, wake of the fifth millenia, _Curse of the Song_

* * *

Transcript of Parseltongue conversation, By Salazar Slytherin:

_Taking the blundering gander with a mare's fist, are we?_

_Pish tosh, no deal!_

_Comprehension achieving in all thoroughness?_

_Pishter._

_Crimps hidden throughout the village! Pustules defenceless in a truncheon's armpits. Women feeling frisky in pastor's bird-eye._

_Slunkers._

_Hoots waving their arms around. Periodic table mashers blightening cakes with whiskey._

_Presents from Elvis? Mayhap prison bitches be listening to yonder smells._

_Me? Impetuous dildo-hunting. Fun for the entire congregation._

_Conclusion; maybe up the intelligence of my pets a little. Sigh.  
_

* * *

_New Year's Eve_

The case of bare oak and copper bindings contained one of her most prized possessions in this world. After the first task, the judges decided that, while the use of the AK spell had played an integral part in slaying the first dragon on British soil since the days of Elizabeth the First, the curse would henceforth be banned under pain of eventual prosecution post-tournament. So, deciding to play to her strengths, she'd gone weapons shopping shortly after Christmas break started.

Her life as a tribute training centre student had left her intimately familiar with many types of weapons. Blunt, Sharp, pointy, serrated, chemical, explosive, you name it and she could use it. After all, when you're forced to kill a classmate with a pen as part of an exam, you tend to learn about how to handle dangerous weapons _very quickly_. But the centre didn't teach you how to handle _every_ type of weapon out there, merely those allowed in the Hunger Games themselves.

Still, she was plenty lethal with standard weaponry in school, so much so that she got bored. The Snow Queen didn't do bored. She did excitement, violence and death just fine, but she had trouble with boredom. It was one of the many reasons she'd taken over the Centre in all but name.

Hacking into the District One Supervisory Network mainframe had been awesome, especially since it'd left her in possession of the District's Emergency self-destruct protocol. She knew where the nukes were buried, how to activate them and from where she could safely watch close to five hundred thousand citizens go up in a blast of atomic fire. But what was important to her at the time was not the idea of setting up her own private nuclear holocaust/fireworks display, but changing the access codes to the Tribute Training Centre's own internal systems and granting herself admin-level clearance while she was at it. On top of all the killing she did out in the open, she now commanded power over who got what marks, privileges and punishments. It was hard to tell which was scarier to her classmates, the willingness to indiscriminately slaughter her peers or the fact that she'd attained academic godhood by granting herself direct control over their educational lives. She never changed her own marks though. She didn't really need to, anyway.

Still, even that got boring. She'd always been somewhat of a prodigy when it came to schoolwork, so while nothing new was to be had on that front for a few years, she was the uncontested leader of the Centre and proficient enough to take on her physical education teachers in combat without having to worry about getting hurt.

So she aced her exit tests and joined the Panem militia shortly after being adopted by the Old Man.

She tried joining the regular Army, but the minimum enlistment age was sixteen. She'd been twelve at the time, meaning that even her new father's considerable clout would not have helped her get in. After all, they had enough trouble training teenagers who'd gained a modicum of emotional & hormonal control. Handling a little Hellbeast (why yes, she had worked hard for that reputation) was _not _part of the all-powerful SOP manual.

The militia had no such qualms. If you passed the entry test, that was it. They didn't care about silly things such as names or criminal history. They didn't care about age, skin color or whatever district you're trying to run away from. They just cared about having as many bodies available as quickly as humanly possible to put on the front lines. She'd looked quite out of place during boot camp, though not by as much as she'd expected.

After all, the militia was where all the 'smart' convicts went, taking the promise of freedom after two years in the militia at face value. When it was either that or ten years cleaning up the radio-active wasteland that used to be districts thirteen through twenty (though only district thirteen had escaped the inevitable historical rewrite), you tended to take the 'smarter' option. However, they soon learned just why their comrades-in-arms had decided that trudging their way through the remains of a nuclear power plant was deemed safer than playing soldier; nobody was playing. A lot of kids too young to have had drinking buddies that survived it tended to take the militia option when pressed. Which meant they learned the hard way.

In the militia, you got three things for sure: basic training, a rifle and a change of uniforms. If your commanding officer was a dumbass, then the niggling little details such as ammo, food, drinking water and transportation tended to 'go missing' or get re-assigned elsewhere. There were more dumb bastards with pips on their shoulders than there were officers capable of wiping their own bottoms, given that these fine officers were the idiots that got caught doing something illegal in Panem. And, given that Panem literally legalised murder for the duration of the Hunger Games, which they kinda have to do lest they end up imprisoning their champion of the year as a consequence, the amount of idiocy involved in that statement should be readily apparent.

In fact, the list of things that were illegal in Panem was surprisingly short for such a strict nation. About the only offences that did not come with grace periods in the year during which they were legal were A) rape, B) anything normally illegal when a minor was involved and C) theft. Everything else, including abduction & torture (fetish day), was legal as long as the offences were committed during the 24-hour period in which they were legal. Get the timing wrong and you ended up doing public service time in either the militia or the radiation cleanup crew. Which was nothing short of a death sentence for the majority of those who end up serving in either of these capacities, but hey, it sure beat what passed for a prison in Panem.

So yeah, the majority of officers weren't the most inspired bunch. And the soldiers were some of the worst scum to ever escape a double-digit district. It was understandable, then, that a twelve-year-old would find themselves being, as the locals in this new world put it, 'taken the piss out of' and occasionally assaulted by the dimmer maggots in the bunch. Funnily enough, the rules for militia boot camp were similar to those of the tournament she was forced to fight now; you are legally allowed to do anything to each other until bootcamp's over, after which time any shenanigans will result in the words 'court martial' and 'grisly, violent execution' being thrown around. Rose, being intimately familiar with these rules, took full advantage of them.

Thankfully, the batch of recruits she bunked with were a smart bunch. It only took half of the barracks' occupants being beheaded and having their heads mounted on pikes in the courtyard for the rest to get the 'don't fuck with Rose Snow' message.

But that wasn't the best memory she had of boot camp, though it came a close second. No, the first was getting her rifle. Due to the idea that arming borderline convicts with automatic rifles right off the bat may be a bad idea, all recruits got their firearms instruction with bolt-action rifles. Unlike the vast majority of those Rose encountered on her shopping spree, the bolt actions she was used to used a detachable 20-round magazine instead of stripper clips. In point of fact, she _hated_ stripper clips.

But anyway, she fell in love with her rifle. Most of the weapons she was familiar with were slow; after two weeks of practice, she could fire thirty rounds a minute without braking a sweat. Her old selection of weapons could hit a target up to fifty metres away if thrown correctly, though aiming was a different story. She tried shooting a target a kilometre away once. She succeeded. True, the target in question was a barn, but she still hit it. _You_ try throwing a javelin to hit a target just shy of a click away and see how far you get. But, what really made her fall in love with her rifle, was that it was _fast_. Arrows? Awesome. Crossbow bolts? You barely even have time to dodge if your enemy gets close enough. Bullets? You can't see them coming. By the time you can hear one coming your way, it's too damn late. And, best of all, they're so fast they just keep going after hitting you.

She was deadly before. With that rifle in her hand, she felt as if nothing could stop her. And she was right.

After boot camp, she bribed the quartermaster with some drugs one of the dead idiots had remanded in her care after some very discreet looting and kept the rifle with her. Her first assignment, she took care of the new, shiny assault rifle they gave her by dismantling it and only reassembling the damn thing for inspection/close quarters battles. That was about the only thing she'd liked about that rifle, really; how easy it was to take apart and reassemble. It took ten seconds to do in pitch dark conditions whilst under fire. Finding out that little nifty tid-bit almost got her killed.

But, back during her first assignment, she could've cared less about the damn thing and just packed it all away, next to the cache of pilfered MREs her Sergeant had handed out to anyone with the cigarettes and/or drugs to pay for them and the tin of 'shoe polish' that was more successful as a skin-contact stimulant than it ever was as shoe-shine. Just because she was twelve and a militiaman didn't mean that she could slack off when it came to barter or currency.

The next thing she knew, she was on the front lines of what used to be Missouri, fighting off a bandit incursion that'd almost made its way into the blasted wastelands of what used to officially be district 13 but was, in fact, what was left of district 16. She learned several useful things about the rifle and about herself; it was great out in the open, but was pants against a group of more than three bad guys in the woods. She hadn't lost her gift for sneaking around, climbing trees and using a combination of both skills to scout ahead of her unit high up in the canopy, twenty kilos worth of gear sitting on her back or not. A rifle is _loud_, especially in a forest with a closed canopy. And that assault rifle was not as much of a piece of shit as she thought, even if it did jam at the weirdest times. She found that she enjoyed war almost as much as she enjoyed studying, which weirded the hell out of her.

She'd never really enjoyed killing as much as she did out there, hunting and being hunted by the barbarians from beyond Panem's civilising influence. Then again, the most you can get out of training a district 1 pansy is a district 1 pansy that can hit a target with a weapon.

The guys she was fighting, though, were not like the boys and girls she got bored killing. They were vicious, intelligent bastards that knew how to _fight back_. They were so good they actually managed to wound her, had almost killed her even, a rough dozen times in the first few months. Nobody had managed that since she'd gotten her hands on a crossbow at the age of ten. It made her downright giddy.

So she got the Sarge to assign her as her unit's scout/designated marksman and wheedled him into handing her a sub-machine-gun in exchange for her assault rifle. The bullets were smaller than in the weapons she was used to, but that weapon was _perfect_ for the denser parts of the forest where her trusty bolt-action just didn't cut it. The silencers she could fix to the barrel were the icing on the cake, even if they only lasted a clip or two before conking out. And then she really took off.

She started as a private at the age of 12. By the time she'd gotten snagged by that cup thing, she was an officer in her own right, a rather good one if her men were to be trusted (which they weren't, but whatever) and had close to a hundred confirmed kills to her credit. She was also a war vet three times over, having participated in Panem's largest land grab since the Rebellion. She'd been all the way to a place once known as 'Wisconsin', a feat that did not go unnoticed back in civilisation.

But, beyond that, what really got her Father's attention was that she'd proven herself to be every inch the blood-thirsty monster he'd presented himself as in his hey-day. Rose was known for capturing the families of barbarians that didn't surrender and ordering the older males to be skinned alive wile throwing whoever was left to the mercy of the main column. That would have, at the tender age of thirteen, qualified her as a war criminal in the eyes of the governments in this world. In Panem, that was what drove her push for promotion.

Well, that and the present of thirty POWs she'd arranged for the commanding officers to enjoy during their front-line inspection tours. She was young, but initiative was the name of the game in Panem. And what you didn't know generally wound up killing you, so she'd taken care of that aspect of her education early on. Most kids thought adults were weird; Rose found herself in the uncomfortable position of having those thoughts confirmed at age twelve. Still, she made Sergeant out of the deal while her Sarge made El-tee. She'd dealt with that long ago now.

After so many months without her weapon of choice, the case she'd just received brought back many of her best memories; flashes of blood, screams, fire and death streaming through her mind as her smile turned wistful. The rush she felt when killing another, the adrenaline pumping through her veins holding that wooden stock in her hand and aiming down the sights, the shrill of fear and anger she could taste buzzing in the air when running through the streets of dead cities...

These were the times she felt safe. Where she felt alive. Where she would see the enemy and imagine the pale faces of her nightmares in their place. Where she could reach out with all the anger she harboured against those that had wronged and abused her all her life before John Snow entered it, touch the ones that want to hunt her down and make them scream in agony. The memories made her feel happy and warm again, the euphoria of finally meeting an old friend once again overriding the blood-lust that heralded the unpacking of new weapons. She brushed the case once more, reading the piece of paper that acted as a portkey still pinned to the top of it.

_Zauberstrasse Waffenfabrik AG; ein freund, fuer wenn du dich in not findest._

_Details: Nummer 2 Mark 4, 'Lee-Enfield' repertierbuechse, wechsel-magazin-faehig, 7.62*51mm. NB: 10 stueck modifizierte M14 wechsel-magazine mit Gewehr verkauft. Kunde hat keine magische verbesserung angefordert._

She opened the leather-bound case and grinned. Her old rifle had been an old and ratty one before she'd cleaned it up, which was fair enough. A lot of the weapons the militia used dated to before the Catastrophe, making them more than a century and a half old at the very least. It was part of the reason why the Panem militia was awfully slow when not on campaign; there were a huge amount of cars & trucks in storage, but they'd been around for so long that the motor and junk that made a car a car had either rusted or rotted through by the time anybody took a look at 'em. The few that did work were religiously maintained and well looked after by the not-so-bountiful number of competent engineers and mechanics the militia could get their hands on, but there simply weren't enough of them to move everybody. And since things such as aircraft, tanks and self-propelled guns were reserved for the army, the shortage of capable vehicles sucked harder than a vacuum bomb when you needed your already stretched fleet to move artillery pieces from A to B without neglecting supplies and/or incoming reinforcements.

So the militia, whilst making up the vast majority of Panem's military might, sure didn't look it. Threadbare uniforms, guns older than Panem itself, a few cars & trucks where the few books on combat doctrine to have survived the wars recommended fielding tanks & APCs... getting them new guns, new uniforms, actual armoured vehicles and some air support would have was not a high enough priority to Panem after the Rebellion, which meant that all the equipment Rose fought with was no different than the stuff Hermione described when ordered to talk about the world's current military capabilities. Though the planes weren't nearly as nifty as the ones she saw while in district 1, they were still formidable machines. And all that history that had been lost to her period! So much war, so many toys to choose from... and so many rules for fighting. Hmm, new guns and lotsa rules versus old ones and fewer rules. She hadn't been able to make up her mind as to whether this was a good thing or not back when she'd first arrived.

Looking at the rifle in front of her, She knew what her decision was. It was almost fifty years old now, but the damn thing looked pristine. These 'Germans' sure knew how to modify a rifle. The grin turned rather vicious. She could play by the rules. After all, she was an expert when it came to bending them to her needs.

Dancing Forest, Day 2 of Second Task

She woke up in the dead inn's main suite, the stasis & cleaning spells having kept this room pristine while the rest of the place looked & smelled more like the insides of a pre-Catastrophe coffin. The Monody's corpse had been thrown out the night before, the bag of rapidly decaying flesh doubtlessly attracting many more predators during the night while she listened to her wand instructing her on what spells could be used to ward off any unwanted night-time intrusions and which ones could be used to splatter any stubborn intruders across the forest.

She'd had a good night's sleep and was up & about shortly before daybreak, ration bar in her hand while she pondered over the map. The Inn was sitting slap-bang in the middle of the damn swamp, with the normal trail that allowed you to go through the area having long since been buried under the mud, silt and shit of the local wildlife. She dug through her pack and took out a compass. She smirked. If what the judges had explained to her during the briefing was right, then they were going to be mighty confused right about now. Hermione had told her about the 'point me' spell before she'd disappeared off somewhere the night before the start of the Task, so she assumed that everyone else assumed that she would use it during her little jaunt through the magical world. Not so.

She knew more tricks about hunting intelligent creatures than the locals could guess at, and one of the biggest rules she remembered her Sarge drilling into her head was not to go around leaking radiation everywhere. Back home, the enemy Barbs she came across sometimes had some nifty detection equipment with them, including sensors capable of catching any non-organic electricity in use close by, infrared HUD mounts, chemical snifters and even gadgets that could tell whether non-solar light had hit a particular plant within an hour of the Barbs checking the place out. So the rule of thumb was that, when you were scouting, you couldn't afford to screw around with electronics or, indeed, too many metals. You had a walkie talkie sitting in a copper-lined pouch, a map, a lighter and a compass for navigation... and that was it. No cigs, no caf-pills, no drugs, no heavy waters, no nuthin'. You were living the life of a stone-ager, except without even the barest hint of fire. You ate your rations cold, you chugged stream water with disinfectant pills to avoid dying of whatever nasty chemical or biological agent was used to kill peeps in the area and you either hunted down the fucker with all the nifty electronics dangling around him first or died trying.

She applied that rule of thumb here. Magic was simply too easy to detect for some of the predators out here to _not_ be used as a handy tracking tool. The smaller her magical signature was, the easier it would be to get past any nasties or, at least, get the drop on them. Some of the shit her wand showed her was downright scary. She'd probably die if she had to tackle those evil demons of Unhappiness things the Deathstick had shown her.

So she stashed her wand away and took out her weapons for the day. There was her bolt-action rifle, her pistol, the Bone Sword that Monody thing had tried to gut her with and a small knife she carried around everywhere she went. Yes, it was extremely heavy, what with the two rifle and two pistol magazines on her rather than in her swag bag. Yes, there was potential for the whole thing to make a lot of noise if she screwed up. No, she couldn't lighten the load anymore than that. At least the bag weighed next to nothing, even if it did leak a teeny-tiny bit of magic, just enough to make walking in a straight line a big no-no.

She checked her gear. Checked it again. Bounced up and down, breaking one of the floorboards with her boots in the process. And grinned. She was ready.

* * *

Cedric woke up screaming in terror, the last few seconds of his previous brush with consciousness rushing back to the front of his mind with all the slow subtlety of a rampaging Rhino. There had been that... _Huge_... monster. The running. The pain. The FIRE! Shit, he almost vomited there. Alright, calm down Cedric old boy. Do a limb count. Wait, no need, everything hurts, which means everything's still there. Except his big toe. But there was no blood, so it was a splinching accident. Oh well, someone must have picked it up along the way. Wait...

"Why am I so calm about this?" He asked himself. "I just lost a part of my anatomy that had been there since I was born. There's no way I can be this calm. I know myself too well."

"I put you under a cheering charm when you woke up." A voice said, almost startling Cedric. Honestly, the last thing you expect when asking a question to yourself is to get an answer. Didn't people know this, or was it a British thing? Huh, British. Magical side only, perhaps? Heh.

"Well, it wor-hurked." Cedric noted cheerfully before pouting. "A bit too well, in fact. I am not thinking straight. Or in a zig-zaggy fashion. Not even in that circular manner my friends seem to think in either. My mind's a bit twee, really. Heheh." He giggled. "Twee."

"Ah, that would be my fault." Another, decidedly more female voice announced. "I, too, hit you with a cheering charm."

"Ah, thanks for elab-Victor? What happened to you?"

"I accidentally change genders before going to sleep. I must have forgotten to change back... It's a Durmstrang thing." He/she explained defensively to a horribly confused-looking Fleur.

"Teehee. How twee!" Cedric giggled, wondering how long the charm would last for before he was dragged back to reality. Viktor(ia) just nodded, furiously trying to have his stoicity outlast his embarrassment.

* * *

"You will not be talking about this ever again. To anyone. Understand?"

"Yes, Viktor." Two voices said in a monotone, desperately trying to stave off the boredom that hiking their way down a strangely well-maintained trail was bringing them. The only sounds they'd heard so far came from the local birdlife. Not a single monster was to be seen anywhere since they'd set off a couple of hours ago. It made Viktor nervous. And when nervous, Viktor tended to babble. A lot. Which drove Cedric round the bend something fierce.

"Alright, I will trust you with this for now. We should probably find somewhere to sit down for lunch and check our progress. We've got to reach the hostages by tomorrow if we're to get back before our time's up." he uttered in that curt, emotionless burst that made his babbling even harder to endure than the Hufflepuff Hymn, which consisted entirely of 'uhhh... ummm... what, can you repeat that please?'.

"Why by tomorrow?" Fleur asked, her interest piqued despite the well-concealed spike of unease that'd been skewering more and more of her patience in the last hour.

Cedric sighed, checking the time on his watch for the umpteenth occasion since waking up that morning. His big toe hurt. His balance was out of whack. His big toe wasn't there anymore. He tried his best to stop thinking about it. "Because," He said slowly "we don't know what awaits us when we reach them. Do we have to fight our way out with them? Are there riddles to solve if they are to be freed? Is it an execution or a birthday party that we're walking towards? We don't know. That extra day will come in handy... if we can get to them by then, that is. Hey Vicky!" he intoned playfully. "How far until we can stop for a rest honey-buns?"

Viktor's scowl didn't scare Cedric. Honestly. No matter what Fleur had to say when she'd stopped laughing herself silly. "Fuck you, Badger Queen."

"Hey, I'm not the were-girl here, girl." Damn, this was fun. Even if it was a bit scary. Actually, it was plenty scary, the way Viktor pinned him with that glare of his. But still fun.

Krum sighed. "Not that far, actually. We should be getting close now." Fleur just kept giggling.

Cedric smiled to himself and went back to checking out the surrounding area for threats. Oh, how he wished he'd mastered that hyper-sensory charm in class! He hated having to rely on Fleur to sniff out any invisible threats to their well-being. Most wizarding naturalists knew that there were plenty of creatures that had the power of invisibility apart from the Demiguise, but they were far too good at evading wizards and magic in general, so he only knew of one possible invisible threat to the group. He hated having to rely on Fleur. The Veela was just so... so... flighty. He giggled involuntarily. Damn, that cheering charm had messed with his sense of humour! He actually found that funny! He-ah, hang on, that looks like the clearing Krum had talked about. "Hey guys! This the clearing?"

Krum agreed while Fleur darted in, eagerly looking for a spot to park her sore rump on for an hour or two. Walking was exhausting. Fighting Dragons was tiring. Who knew? She sure did now.

* * *

The veela was debating with Krum about whether or not they should try a different path before it started raining again like it had the night before. The sky was currently clear, but all three knew that that would change extremely rapidly once they hit what was left of the enchanted Orchards. Weather & temperature regulation spells were notoriously long-lived, often lasting for a lot longer than the environment they were cast in. A number of Oases were originally magical farms that had paid a little bit extra for spellcasting. The resulting charms had been operating since before the last ice age. This made old orchards such as the one they wanted to cross extremely dangerous, since they were a popular refuge for many a magical creature and, therefore, prime hunting grounds for magical predators. Once they hit the area, there was little doubt that rain and other nasties would ensue and they should probably prepare accordingly.

"And I am telling you, just _confringo_ing our way through is not going to work." The blonde girl sniffed, clearly not impressed with the Bulgarian's reasoning abilities. "It takes far too much power to cast that spell that many times that quickly, power we'll need when the predators come looking for us."

"Predators will be a non-issue out there if we clear a path this way." Krum said, waving a hand in irritated dismissal. Fleur sighed inwardly as she silently bid him to carry on with his argument. "For one thing, the loud noise, the shockwave and the shrapnel should be enough to deal with any stray animals."

"Yeah, but here's the thing, Viktor; _we'll_ be hit by shrapnel too if we do this." Fleur frowned. "And wood splinters hurt, I can tell you that."

The Bulgarian Seeker sneered at her. How cute. She sneered right back. "Are you a witch or not? Shield!"

"Uh huh." she said skeptically. "Because _Protego _does _such_ a good job at stopping small objects going really fast."

"It's _wood_ shrapnel! Easy to stop, easy to deflect!"

"No, Viktor, it's nowhere near as easy as you think it is. You're thinking wood splinters. I am thinking what's left of a small tree, hitting us at close to the speed of sound, while on fire. The drain from the shielding spell would be immense."

"Use the _protego aegis_then! Perfect for this kind of thing!"

"NOT THE POINT VIKTOR!" She breathed. "The point is that, _confringo_ or _protego_, we'll exhaust ourselves if we even get halfway through."

"Then what would you suggest, _princesse_?" He bit out, his temper being frayed by the confrontational blonde. Clearly, she still underestimated the potential he saw in this group. To him, they not only could, but would make it across without issue. If he'd listened to her suggestions yesterday, they'd all be dead.

"What about flying?" A small voice asked from his spot on the ground. Cedric looked at the two of them. "Why don't we just fly over? And before you ask-" He said, raising his hands in anticipation, "I've got a broom with me."

"_Ah oui,_ great idea Cedric!" The blonde false-cheered. "And 'ow are we going to fit three people on one sports broom, eh?" She smirked at the stricken look the Hufflepuff gave her. "Thought so."

"It is quite a good idea." Krum ventured, stroking his chin. "But it will be crowded, yet could be done with sticking charms, and it leaves us at the mercy of airborne predators. Well done, Cedric."

"Yes, well done at suggesting something that could get us _killed_."

"Oi! Calm it, you!" Diggory shouted, pointing a finger at her. "All we've gotten from you for the past ten minutes is bitch, moan, but I don't wanna! Well little miss French bitch, either you come up with a plan of your own or you SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The echo bounced across the clearing, the words still clear in the dead silence that came afterwards. Cedric, clearly panicking at his own behaviour, Krum, staring at the Hufflepuff in astonishment, and Fleur, regarding the two of them with a considering gaze.

"Okay, my suggestion is zat we 'ave one of us mount ze broom, reach a spot on ze far side of ze forest and _apparate_ back 'ere to side-along ze two of us." She said carefully, a small smile forming on her lips even as Cedric's blush turned his head purple.

Krum just whistled. "Wow. The Slytherins warned us not to anger the Hufflepuffs, but wow."

"I agree." the Veela said. "Eet ees distrurbingly close to ze feeling of being attacked by a duck... and losing."

Somehow, Cedric's blush got darker. Krum just laughed.

* * *

The first sign that something had just gone badly wrong came from Fleur. Her and Krum were sitting tight, both sets of eyes scanning the dense underbrush that ringed the clearing for any hidden threats. Krum was getting bored; Cedric had come and gone twice in the past hour, reporting in on any suitable landing sites he found during his airborne scouting sortie. Both he and Fleur had vetoed the first two and given a probable maybe on the last one he'd found, provided that he could find a trail close to that point they could use until nightfall. Now all they had to do was wait.

It was hard going. And boring as hell. The best he could do was a bare skim of the underbrush, what with the tall grass within the clearing probably concealing more immediate dangers for the two. Fleur was slated to go first and secure their landing site for them while Krum would cover their departure by setting the clearing on fire after leaving. The last thing he wanted was having to run from that strange... _thing_ that had pursued them the day before. So here he was, trying to keep as much attention on the area around him as he could, knowing that he would have to be alone for around fifteen minutes when Ced came to pick up the French Veela, so he should probably get used to it.

A soft hiss drew his attention to the Veela. Fleur's eyes were wide even as her nostrils started flaring. This was not good. "Can you smell it yet, Viktor?"

"No" the stoic Bulgarian stated flatly, wand already twirling into an ever-ready duelling configuration Headmaster Karkaroff had taught him on the sly. "What am I looking for?"

"Death." The blonde half-human stated weakly. "The stench of Death."

"Okay." He said, opting to move his hands into a position that allowed for a fast-cast of the Avadas. A Kedavra or a Mortiis every one and a half seconds was not something to sneeze at. He looked around the glen, the cheerful greens surrounding them at odds with both the clouded sky and the suddenly silent forest behind the shrubs. It was as if the whole area started holding its breath. He sniffed at the air, looking for that sickly-sweet smell that spoke of silenced screams and forgotten graves. There! A bare hint of a scent, more mould than rot, but there nonetheless. "Smelled it. Direction?"

"Upwind from us." she stated, gulping. "Won't be long now."

"Agreed." He held his breath, listening for any tell-tale signs that whatever was coming their was about to attack. Instead, he heard-clanking? "Heard something. Sounds like metal."

Fleur nodded, having evidently heard the same. _Clank_. "There!" She shouted, pointing her wand at a dark patch of forest. _Clank. _Viktor spun around, facing the direction he'd heard the sound come from.

He and Fleur were back to back. Krum frowned. "Pincer. Coming from both sides." _Clank-kank_, came from both his left and right, the sound of metal on metal growing louder and more frequent by the minute. "Sorry, was mistaken. Coming from everywhere. Ideas on what they could be?"

"Non. No metal beasts I know of hunt like this."

"Too far north anyway. Metal animals die from exposure up here. What could it be?"

"Let's wait and see."

"Agreed."

Neither wasted the time they were afforded by the slow pace of the attack. Fleur dug up the earth around them with a twirl of her wand, giving the two magicals a sand bank to shield themselves with should any projectiles come their way. Krum transfigured the tall grass into rows of silver & wooden spikes, plucking them out of the ground and planting them into the pit the Delacour girl dug out. Fleur hit the sandbank with an overpowered compression charm whilst piling more and more dirt onto the shrinking mound, Turning the sandbank into a ring of dense stone. Krum hit the now-bare glade outside of their mini-fortress with layers of prank curses and sticking charms. Nothing caught out in the open should be able to move for a few seconds, more than enough for the stout bulgarian and the nimble avatar of nobility to cut them down.

The noise of metal hitting metal became a dull roar as the two worked frantically to prepare themselves against the unknown foe. Fleur sweated despite the cold weather. Krum's frown of concentration grew ever more intense as he worked, layering ever more devious and vicious magics one on top of the other even as he ran through and discarded a number of possible warding schemes that could help defend the pair without boxing them in against this unknown enemy. He just prayed that whatever it was didn't turn out to be a Shoggoth, a monster made of tarnished liquid metals that preyed on anything in its path, magic or not. He'd seen one once. He never wanted to see one again. He started working faster., vowing to kill himself if his fears turned out to be true.

Finally, a figure could be seen approaching them through the underbrush. It was... human? The darkened silhouette sure seemed to indicate this, even as the faint image resolved itself the closer the figure got. Fleur decided not to wait to find out what it was. "_Reducto_!" She yelled, the ball of spellfire streaking across the clearing at dizzying speeds. The spell collided with the target's head, resulting in the head disappearing with a loud SPLAT and the corpse of the humanoid falling to the ground "Ha! _Va te faire foutre, sale fils de pute_!"

"Nice shot." Krum said, whistling quietly. "Colourful language too."

"A lady is allowed 'er occasional foibles." She sniffed.

"Okay, me dumb Georgian. Me no know prissy French manners. _Confringo!_" BLAM "Me hit target with crude barbarian spell." He said, waving his hand towards the gap where a large tree used to stand.

"_Reducto! _You shall learn, _paysan_. Zey all do. _Reducto!"_

The spellfire stopped as the number of moving silhouettes dried up. The two combatants breathed a sigh of relief, using the seeming lull to gather themselves and pick out what other defences they should use, now that they had an idea what what they were fighting looked like. At least, that was the plan before the sound of rustling reached their ears.

A headless shadow stood up, followed by another. Followed by one skewered by a piece of wood as long as Viktor's arm. While they stared at something that simply should not be possible, the dozen attackers they'd felled had stood up and started hobbling their way into the clearing.

The first of the assailants stepped into the light. It looked like a human male, clad in anachronistic Roman armour, Gladius in the hand that hadn't been blown off by Krum's enthusiastic use of explosion curses. Only, where Krum expected to see bloody meat and bone sticking out of the spot where the thing's shoulder used to be, he saw a thin layer of skin burnt off, revealing a doll-like wooden joint sitting underneath it. The splintered wreckage was reforming in front of his eyes, the sap leaking out of the wound turning into new would centimetre by centimetre. Viktor's brath hitched. _It couldn't be..._

"Vickie!" Fleur said, her tone one of near panic. "What are zose... _things?_"

"They're wood puppets. Fire. Use fire. _Incendio noctem!" _Was all he said, his wand unleashing a stream of black fire that hit the three closest to his position. The wooden puppets shrieked with such a shrill intensity that Fleur fumbled her own flame curse, sending a stream of plasma at the point behind the targets she was aiming for. The forest lit up as the trees caught fire.

"_Mon Dieu!_" Fleur whispered as the flames drove away the darkness. Hundreds. There were hundreds of them, slack faces and eyeless sockets showing the wood behind the skin masks the puppets wore. The icy thrill of fear wound itself down her spine. They were all _looking at her_, their wooden gaze silently staring out at her even as they slowly shambled into the glade, their clothes sporting small fires from the nascent blaze they'd been walking through. The slack of the skin masks were as deceiving as the skin covering was. Beyond the expressionless, saggy flesh lay a malevolent intelligence her talents at evaluating emotions & intentions in others were sensing. Those faces hid the _hate_, such anger at these puny things that had dared trespass in its domain and would pay for that as others had before. Screw fear. She was sure that what she was feeling was terror. Pure, painful terror. "_Incendio!_"

* * *

Cedric knew that his friends & fellow contestants were in trouble the moment the smoke cloud started to rise from the green carpet zooming past below him. Not that he could do much but fret for the ten minutes it would take before he could get back and help them. He'd expected something like this to happen out here sooner or later really, but not at the point where he'd have to either take to the air or risk apparating onto a killing field.

The Weasley Twins could be real chatty when it came to the things those two had come across during their less-than-legal romps through Wizarding Britain's last magical wildlife preserve. There had been one outside of Cardiff, but that stretch of forest had been swallowed by muggle suburbia a couple of decades ago, which meant that all those magical creatures native to the Isles could only really live in peace in the Forbidden Forest, or the Dancing Forest as the locals called it. Which meant that every single nasty in the magical creatures books eventually wound up in this place. Though the forest was _huge_ thanks to the space expansion ward, that didn't mean that the odds of not encountering something incredibly lethal were about as slim as a muggleborn's survival chances at a Death Eater revel.

He just didn't expect it on day two, though. Which was why he was now zooming at close to two hundred miles an hour towards an ominously orange-glowing cloud of smoke, his booted feet almost skipping across the forest canopy, he was flying that low. He just hoped that it wasn't Acromantula. There were always one or two of them that specialised in shooting websilk at airborne targets, trapping the prey and knocking them out of the sky in one go. Ending up as a spider's dinner after all this effort learning how to survive out in the Forest would be... _embarrassing_.

Probably not as embarrassing as being killed by that psycho bitch Snow (and wasn't _that_ as un-Hufflepuffish an attitude as Cedric had ever embraced, but it was a justified one), but still embarrassing.

Scratch the acromantulas, he just hoped that his friends hadn't run into the Girl Who Lived To Scare The Shit Out Of One Cedric Diggory. Even if he ended up as spider shit, at least those eight legged bastards left something that could be buried. He wasn't sure that Rose would be as mindful as they were when it came to that.

His quidditch instinct made him duck for some reason. He was almost thrown off his broom when a black blur sped through the sky where his face would have been otherwise, the high-pitched ululating wail making him pale and quake in his mud-covered boots.

Harpies. The Cheetah of the skies. Stun their prey with hypersonic shrieks, gut them on their way down and drag the splattered carcass back to their communal nesting grounds for munchies. It didn't help that they could easily outrun his broom in a straight line. There was only one thing he could do.

He pulled the broom's nose skywards, trusting the Nimbus's saddling charm to keep him from falling off during the vertical climb. Fast on the dive they may be, but Harpies were notoriously slow when it came to climbing higher and higher while the broomstick just kept going at the same speed. The world around him turned from a green-blue-grey horizon to a greyish-blackish blob that stretched as far as the eye could see. The air started getting rarer, his uniform heating up as the temperature got colder. He started panting, the sudden heat and lack of oxygen reminiscent of being trapped under the heavy wintertime bed-sheets Hogwarts provided. The adrenaline that the initial awareness of being under attack provided got ramped up as his breath started growing more laboured, his panicking body forcing his brain into a state of frantic panic it took all his rudimentary occlumency skills to defeat. He levelled out.

The grey cloud of smoke was the size of a small inkblot from where he now sat, his conscious mind evaluating what to do now even as his spine melted into his pants when it realised that the only thing between a live Cedric in the air and a flat pancake of the-meatbag-once-known-as-Diggory variety was a piece of wood with bristles at the end. Long practice helped with suppressing that instinct, even if the addition of things trying to claw your eyes out made it a tad harder than it should be.

He ducked on instinct once again, feeling a talon break the skin on his back as another black blur sped past with a screech. A pair of Blood-red wings unfurled from the creature that was part shapely female and part avian (and wouldn't Fleur be pissed at the similarities there), the short body supported by a wingspan twice as long as a human was tall. Well, at least he now knew where the magical paralysing scream came from. Even from all the way up here, those looked like an _impressive_ set of lungs. Quite large, in fact. And those nipples were nice and perky, too. Wait...

The teenage boy shook himself, hoping to throw off the confusing messages of pain, panic & arousal wrestling for priority. Now was not the time to fantasise or, indeed, curl into a ball and start whimpering. His friends needed him. Besides, he doubted that that had been the only winged bitch hanging around using the clouds as cover. Time to bail. Now, how could he get out of this mess-the smoke cloud. He would aim for that.

His hind-brain quailed in fright as his broom pointed downwards at such a steep angle. For once, he agreed with his instincts. This _was_ the most terrifying time he'd ever had on a broom. His stomach bottomed out as his broom started its journey earthwards, to the sound of furious shrieking from above.

* * *

It was a sight straight out of the works of Dante. Bosch would have painted it, had he been into painting famous last stands. The vibrant green clearing had disappeared in a haze of fire and a puff of smoke, leaving behind a glade painted with the dull browns of baked earth, the smoky greys of ash and the oily black of burning greenwood. Blotches of hissing pus formed around the puppet husks, the magical resins fighting a losing battle against the enchanted flames coursing through the charcoal blocks littering the area. The fire coursed farther through the forest behind the blackened stumps of murdered trees, hungrily feeding off the mulch and twigs dropped by the hulking behemoths whose bark split open, leaking sap that _screamed_ when the flames came for them.

The signs of the battle were spreading, filtering ever deeper back the way the contestants had come. In the centre of the inferno, two figures kept shooting off multi-coloured flame jets, desperately attempting to hold back the army shambling towards them.

Viktor was truly worried now. The defensive perimeter he and Fleur had established was working, but being eroded under the steady influx of puppets. The forest was on fire around them. The enemies were still coming. _Everything was on fucking fire_. He breathed deeply, the bubblehead charm flickering unsteadily as the oxygenation functions were taxed beyond their incanted limits. If he let the bubblehead drop, he'd be dead by asphyxiation in minutes. If he kept it up, he faced magical exhaustion within the next fifteen. So he had a twenty-minute timeframe in which to survive and come up with a solution. Fucking fun.

Fleur would probably hold out for a bit longer than he did, her more efficient casting skills compensating for her lower magical capabilities quite nicely. Krum, on the other hand, was a powerhouse, as the sheer number of _confringo_s and _incendia Maximii_ he'd thrown around could attest to. Huge magical reserves to draw from, sturdy tanking a specialty, just don't ask him to cast fiddly little charms with it. Unfortunately, the bubblehead charm was plenty fiddly and, therefore, more magically exhausting to maintain than even _Fiendfyre _was to him. Unfortunately, it was the only way he could survive for as long as he had in this version of Hell he'd landed into. Fifteen minutes left. Fleur whimpered behind him. Huh. Maybe he'd be the last to die after all.

Something touched his shoulder from behind. He looked behind at where he thought Fleur was, nodded once and then turned back to blasting puppets with sticky flame curses. He then did a double-take once his brain realised that it had, in fact, _not_ been Fleur who'd tapped on his shoulder, but a weary, battered and coal-faced Diggory grinning tiredly at him. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." he said to the other boy, chuckling manically as relief set in. "What's Fleur doing?"

"Repairing my broom. Ran into some Harpies on the way back." The Hufflepuff replied as he silently tossed _incendio_s down-range like they were going out of fashion. "She knew how. I didn't. We traded places."

"Harpies? They still up there?" Krum asked, worriedly scanning the sky for any sign of the hated birds. Georgia was infested with the damn things, so much so that you didn't dare go flying without back-up in that area.

"Lost them in the smoke column." Diggory grinned. "Don't think they appreciated crashing into the middle of the fire, though."

"Hah! Keep casting. Hey Delacour!" he shouted, drawing the Veela's attention. "Move it, will you? Otherwise we all die down here."

"_Va te faire, salopard!_ I am working as fast as I can!"

"Then work faster." The burly Bulgarian said. "I am getting tired."

"It's okay, I am almost finished. _Engorgio_!"

"Huh? Why did you cast that, Fleur?" Cedric asked, shielding his face from the glare of the fire raging around them.

"Because there won't be enough space for all three of us otherwise."

"_All three?_ But that broom's only meant for two people! And we agreed that we should apparate out!"

"Oh, don't worry Cedric. Both me and Fleur are too tired and leaving one of us behind would be condemning him or her to a painful death. This way, we don't need to leave you behind after all!" The cheeky reply came back.

"Oh ha, ha. Very funny." Was it Viktor, or did Cedric grow a sense of humour overnight? Krum wasn't sure at this point.

"_C'est pret!_ Let's go!"

* * *

Rose silently picked her way across the forest floor, trying to balance setting a fast pace against being as silent as she possibly could doing so. She was also sweating bullets, her jacket long since banished to the confines of the hyperdimensional backpack lest the sweat-soaked garment actually ice over in this bitterly cold, frost-logged environment.

It was one thing Rose had had herself rigorously prepare for when it came to the 'dancing forest'; the abrupt and often non-sensical formation of large pockets of weather. It was why the Forbidden Forest had gained the 'dancing forest' moniker before a Goblin invasion killed off the vast majority of sapients that lived in it. It danced to its own tune, setting the seasons with the frenzied chaos that you either incorporated into your own jig around the forest or got out of the way of. Okay, so it wasn't the best of metaphors, but it worked for the dead people, so Snow was willing to follow along with it.

Still, Rose mused, it was rather stupid of her to have gone through all these preparations just to end up trudging through snow that had just grown out of the bloody ground somehow while she was walking through it wearing her summer gear, with knee-high waterproof fightin' boots being the only concession she seemed to make to the snap frost biting at her surroundings. The reason for this was simple;

Rose was nervous. And angry. And elated. All at the same time. Which made her all hot and bothered in a good way.

She was being _hunted_. By something or things that were far more intelligent than any animal had any right to be. They were better than her peers had ever aspired to, maybe even as good as she was. Her mouth tasted the blood and ash of a large fire raging somewhere close by, the familiar taste of Death in the air barely covered by the scent of the forest. Her brain pounded away inside her skull, instincts screaming for the blood of these things that had _dared_ try to equal her in a game she'd long since mastered. She honed in those instincts just as Sarge taught her to, but it was a near thing.

Her brilliant green eyes seemed to have acquired a distinct shade of sickly red as she used skills that had gone unused in months. The uniform white of the forest around her warped into hues of blue and mottled green, her own body an amalgam of greens, oranges and blood red showing that she was radiating more heat into the environment than her body should be able to generate without killing her. She chanced a look behind her. There, moving stealthily from tree branch to tree branch, white, vaguely humanoid shapes stalked her in complete silence.

She chanced another look without her heat vision. Nothing. Whatever it was, it could turn invisible. Correction; it could turn itself and those vicious-looking short spears the pack carried invisible. She feinted looking down at her watch, brushing her hand against the length of wood wedged in the bigger-on-the-inside holster concealed by the watch strap.

_Demiguise_, a quiet whisper informed her. _Invisible thanks to their fur. Humanoid hunter-gatherer sub-species of the _homo magicus_ genus. Extremely intelligent. Ambush predator. Known for their use of spears & bows. Almost impossible to fight thanks to inborn invisibility. Communicates during hunts by heating select portions of their body when out hunting. Recommend liberal use of _incendio, fiendfyre, confringo _etc. Fire & area-of-effect detonation spells known to kill or incapacitate quickly._

Rose grimaced. If these were ambush predators, that meant that they would be attacking her the second she stopped to take a break. They used infrared vision, probably related to hers somehow, but more developed if they could actually communicate using heat signatures. She couldn't shake them, the body heat and pheromones she gave off when getting excited prevented that. She would eventually tire out too much to continue, meaning that she would have to fight a pack of demiguise whilst exhausted if she tried. Running would just tip them off. She frowned.

She had to outsneak these freaks. Outwitting prey was easy. Doing so with a predator was decidedly not as easy. She started stroking the shaft of her rifle in cogitation. What could she do? She took a chance when coming across a nearby clearing, unsheathing her new bone sword whilst digging the map out of her trouser pocket. Weary of any further attacks, she scanned the tree line intently for any sign of movement in the upper reaches. Satisfied, she disengaged her UV vision and took a look at the piece of parchment. Fixing on her position, the map then proceeded to show her the most direct path forward. Yes, luck was on her side. _That_ would do nicely.

* * *

If there is one thing that sets the wizarding world apart from any other culture on earth, it's that its history is a lot closer to the surface than it is in any other culture. It's hard to obscure and rewrite history when the memories of the people that lived it are still hanging around and talking to people centuries, sometimes even millenia, later. They live in a society where the major events in their history are potentially a flubbed dimensional alteration spell away, where they could potentially still be alive two centuries in the future and where illnesses of mind and body are incredibly easy to deal with.

It should therefore come as no surprise that Harpies were still feared centuries after their last brush with magical society. Their blood-red wings, shapely bodies, sharp talons and razor-sharp teeth had seen many a mage being torn apart by the fiends. Their speed, vicious ambush attacks from above and paralysing scream did nothing to help their image as a purely dark creature. Many a budding Dark Lord had made the mistake of trying to recruit them only to end up as fodder for their chicks. Even Herpo The Foul, their rumoured creator, had shunned away from bringing them into his beastly army.

But there were ways of fighting them.

Beneath the stormy clouds of Scotland, a broom raced across the sky, seemingly trapped between the Dark Orange thunderclouds above and the suddenly white landscape underneath. One figure was leaning into the broom, his back bleeding away liberally as he tried to coax the protesting enchantments into giving him _more speed_. He was exhausted, the constant adrenaline rush, the wound that wouldn't stop gushing his lifeblood all the way down his pants and the concentration that boosting the enchantments with his own magic required leaving him perilously close to the point of exhaustion. His companions were no better, already drained by the horrors their little stratagem had unwittingly unleashed upon them being dogpiled by the magic sustained blasts of kinetic impact spells and bone-breaker curses they now unleashed on their angry foes. They couldn't communicate between each other, the noise-cancelling spell, while vital, curtailing any orders, warnings or tactical advice they could possibly give the others. They just had to trust one another. And hope it'd be enough.

Krum smiled as yet another pile of red feathers and dying female humanoid disappeared beneath the forest canopy. Fleur unleashed an air barrier above his head, causing the diving Harpy to run into a solid wall and splatter the three of them with blood & viscera. Cedric kept up the frantic search for a new landing spot, wiping the ash & grime raining from the sky now off his prized lucky goggles. _There!_ He elbowed Fleur in the ribs, silently screaming in pain as she instinctively slapped him in the back for his pretense and pointed at something closing fast. _A church spire._ A pat on the back was the only acknowledgement he could receive. He still wished he could have heard her say 'well done'. Being told that by a Veela was very uplifting after all. It was a guy thing.

* * *

Rose trudged on under a burning sky, the snow of ash and the flickering orange-red sky telling her that it wasn't just the burning rays of the sun that were lighting up the way for her. She sped up slightly. Twilight was fast approaching, and if the Demiguise were ever going to make their move, it would be after sundown.

The bastards hadn't let up. They'd been trailing her for hours, one team relieving another relieving another. She knew that she couldn't really shake them, but that hadn't stopped her from trying. She'd gone off the path, climbed steep mountainous hills and crossed a number of iced-over rivers in her quest to escape the invisible enemies trailing her. Always, there would be another team waiting to trail her wherever she emerged. She felt cheated. The wand had never mentioned that they could _do_ that. _I didn't know_. The hoarse whisper came to her. _This is new. Unexpected. Bad._ She snorted. Bad was an understatement.

She'd put on a heavy winter coat once the situation settled, the heat that came from fear and excitement fading with the acquisition of a plan. That, combined with her cross-country trek and copious short-cutting through dense underbrush and over tricky hillsides had left her feeling the strain of her day-long walk. She was sweating and, without the heat, that sweat eventually turned ice-cold, making her irritable and drowsy. And the _fucking weather_ just got worse with that _fucking firestorm_ raging somewhere now far behind her.

She was close, she knew it. But she was also cutting it far closer than she had any right to. She wasn't Captain Panem after all, she needed to rest, and soon, damn the consequences.

Which is when she saw the outline of a church... and a broomstick these wizard people used for transport just lying next to it. They'd had a broomstick with 'em all this time. She could have stayed with them and hitched a ride. It just wasn't fucking _fair_.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

The church wasn't nearly as grand an affair as it had appeared to the exhausted trio's eyes. The outside had looked much the same as when the town had been abandoned, its all wooden frame standing as impassive and permanent a statement to the ingenuity of medieval craftsmen as the day it had been built. The inside, on the other hand, was a different story. Where once lush tapestries had dominated the ceiling, depicting whatever sacred events the local religion had worshipped, now played host to fraying bits of cloth held up by old spiderwebs. The inner wall, while still carved out of stone, now had ice crystals growing over centimetres-thick moss, their combined appearance one of a ruined temple than the inside of a still-standing structure. The pews, not benefiting from the building's enchantments, had rotted away to piles of meal covering the stone flags.

And, where an altar of obsidian still stood in defiance to the entropy around it, three figures could be seen crouching over a hole in the floor.

All were dirty, bloodied and weary from their day. None of them could truly walk at that point anymore, conjuring mats and sleeping bags out of the rusting hulks of metal artifacts strewn around the focal point of the cult's worship, that black slab of volcanic glass that, while majestic, did nothing to assuage the lingering paranoia of being attacked.

And yet... there was optimism there as the blonde woman looked at the burly man who'd just finished carving a set of runes into the stone hidden beneath a loose flagstone.

"Yes. Remember the instances where Runes & Arithmancy overlap? There's a connection in there somewhere." Krum said excitedly.

"I know. It's... a nice little tid-bit of magic I learned in third year." Cedric rattled out, a pale & exhausted face shivering through the fever his infected back had acquired.

"Can it. It's not just a tid-bit that we're looking at here. This could mark a new step in the field of magical mathematics." The blonde said as she finished examining the markings.

"Uh-huh. Yes, I am sure that it's great and all, but so what? The connection is obvious."

" I agree with Cedric. Look, I know that the runes look incredibly simple from an Arithmancers' point of view, but why is this such a revolutionary idea? It's nothing new, you know."

"It's not the runes aspect that I'm thinking about here. You know how difficult it is to craft spells and make them work as intended, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, that's because the vast majority of the spell does not even touch upon the spell itself. In fact, spells generally follow the eighty-twenty rule."

"Eighty-what now?"

"The eighty-twenty rule. Twenty percent of whatever you're looking at tends to be as valuable as the remaining eighty percent. In the case of spells, roughly eighty percent of the spell is designed to stabilise and contain the remaining twenty percent." Cedric interjected.

"But why?"

"Well, mostly because that's what's needed to stop the spell from backfiring on its caster. Strip all the containment, direction and security magic off the spell itself and you're generally left with a big ole blast of energy waiting to happen."

"Okay. So what you're saying is that, without those safety spells, you just get a big boom."

"Uhh, not quite. How do I say this, huh... you still get the advertised effects, but it hits everything within range rather than what you're aiming for. Say, for example, that you did this to a colouring charm. So you take the charm to make something look hot pink, say, strip it of all its protections and then cast it. What happens?"

"It blows up, according to you."

"Right. Yes it does. But it still turns things pink. Everything hit by the magical blast turns pink, in fact. Including you. And because you probably cast the charm with the same 'strength' as a normal one, you also happened to make it four to five times stronger in the process. Meaning that you turned your entire room hot pink rather than whatever it was you were aiming for." Krum resumed.

"Ah, I get you now. That sounds superb."

"Except it isn't. Imagine doing something like that with a reducto. Or a severing charm. You'd tear everything within range, including yourself, to shreds."

"Ah. Right. But what does this have to do with Runes?"

"Runes don't have these security features included. And yet, these runes work perfectly."

"What?"

"That was my reaction too! When I analysed that rune stone's arithmantic output, all I got was the pure, underlying Block Transfer equation for the spell rather than the equation plus the massive jumble of security junk functions I was expecting. And, yet, it still works!"

Cedric looked closer at the stone now. "_Mithril_." He breathed. "I've never seen so much of it. A warding stone's worth of

"And how does that help us now?"

"Well, thanks to the wards that I've carved into the stone, we still had enough space left to carve two spells into the stone. There's a wide-area _lumos_ and a standard heating charm applied to it now."

"Ah, great. Nice to know we won't freeze to death. So what are we waiting for?"

"Well, there's a small chance it might, uh, explode."

"How small a chance?"

"Single digit percentile at worst. I'm fairly certain it won't blow up in our face when we activate the stone, but we shouldn't try turning it off and on again."

"Right. Hit it."

And so Krum did, activating the warding stone with a tap of his wand. "Shit."

"What?" Fleur asked.

"The stone only has enough power to power the spells. The wards themselves are long gone." He drooped. "Magic has changed too much since those days. They will _never_ work now."

"Well, at least we got something out of it." Cedric reassured the other man. "Nothing to it but to ward a small area for ourselves."

"Again? We have to cast more magic?" the blonde girl cried out in frustration. "And we just wasted an hour getting this thing to _work. Putain!"_

Cedric dug himself deeper into his conjured sleeping bag. He was still waiting for the healing potion to kick in. He _really _wasn't in either the right shape or the right mood to calm the furious Veela.

A profound silence enveloped the trio as they mentally prepared themselves to further tax their depleted magical focus. All four contestants were outstanding in their own right, even if Rose's expertise seemed to be murder. The amount of magic they'd performed on that day would have had most wizards on their knees. And now they were about to try and cast protection wards around the church without losing either their magic or their life. They needed a miracle.

Unfortunately, their prayers were answered.

A large bang echoed through the church, startling the group into panic mode. What was it now? Would they have to fight a troll, a giant? They looked over the top of the altar, the tip of their wands glowing with reluctant anticipation of yet another fight. What they saw was their fellow contestant, frantically sealing the door behind her and casting spells at the walls and ceiling. "What the fuck do you idiots think you're doing?" The girl screamed at them. "This whole building just lit up like a fucking christmas tree! Are you trying to get yourselves killed? An-oh wait. Why do you all look like shit? Did something happen?"

"Y-you could say that." Great. Just fucking great. First the Puppets, then the Harpies, now _her_. Cedric was starting to severely doubt that he'd see the sun rise tomorrow. "What about you?"

"Demiguise." The word hung in the air as the horrified trio realised just why the Snow Queen looked like she'd run into a monster. "They're after me. And, since you were so fucking nice to turn the only decent shelter in this shit-hole into a beacon, they're now after _all of us_! And you, badger-boy!" She said, raising a familiar-looking broom up in the air. "Why the fuck would you leave a potential escape vehicle just lying in the fucking street?"

"Wait, wait. Back up there. Demiguise?"

"Yeah, a pack of them. Maybe even the whole goddamned tribe."

"Oh great." Krum's frown grew markedly. "And because they hunt using heat signatures, then they'll be heading right here."

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Five minutes."

"... _On est foutus._"

The others couldn't help but agree.

They'd done the best they could on such short notice. Cedric, having gotten some firearms instruction on the bushy-haired friend of Rose's insistence, was handed the pistol she'd carried. Fleur took the sword ("_A monody bone-sword!_ Aren't they extinct" "Probably are now.") and Krum just glowered at Rose when she tried to hand off the combat knife to him.

"Right. So Cedric, I am going to open the doors while Krum and Fleur conjure the sticky glowing powder. You are to fire at anything coming through that door. Understood?"

He just nodded at the girl. She seemed to know what she was doing, having taken the five minutes to re-arrange debris and give the group a clear field of fire. Krum had repeated his prank charm trick while Fleur had _evanesco_'ed as much of the garbage as she could. The _lumos _spell was hanging in mid-air, having been moved by Cedric into the centre of the church. In the charmlight, the group took a moment to admire the scintillating glass windows that showed pictures of serenity high above the future killing field, filling their hearts with beauty even as they mentally prepared themselves for another slaughter.

Finally, thumps started echoing against the church door. Their only exit was cut off, no backing out now. The demiguise would never have tried this if it had just been Rose they were gunning for. But the prize of four magical humans rather than just the one they'd anticipated was too juicy a kill to pass up on.

Rose slotted a magazine into her rifle, pulling back the bolt and shoving it into place with a practiced hand. She was grinning as she put herself into position, the rifle resting on top of her bag with the butt nestled in a comfy position against her shoulder. She dug out a gnarled & ancient-looking wand, probably the one Dumbledore had bequeathed to her, pointed at the door and whispered _alohomara_.

The rusted lock holding the door in place shattered under the Demiguise's fierce strength, the clang of metal on stone loud enough to give both groups pause. The door opened. Cedric aimed his pistol. Rose looked down the iron sights and activated her IR vision. Point blank range. Just as she liked it.

A hoarse shout in an unrecognisable language came from the two spell-casters, the conjured cloud of glowing dust blasting the first wave of invisible monsters back a step. Rose was already firing, the solid CRACK echoing four times before she stopped firing.

Cedric saw a glowing figure rush through the opening, stumbling on some unseen jinx of Krum's. _Snap_. He missed. Seven rounds left. _Crack_. Rose didn't, the round tearing through the beast, leaving a bluish ichor to flood out where the Demiguise fell. He saw another figure approaching more cautiously and took the time to aim. It was hideous. Few wizards ever truly saw a Demiguise with its fur on, the required _revelo_ variant far too complex and draining to ever allow a normal wizard to cast it at the beast if it's moving.

Its body was that of a large, barrel-chested Ape, the fur covered in glowing dust wriggling around all over its body. Its feet were more like elongated hands than what Ced saw with his socks off, with large tufts of fur lodged between the toes. Its face was feral, two unseen eyes leaving an empty space through which you could see the dust on the other side of its head. The snout looked like a squashed birthday cake, its one nostril giving the whole thing the appearance of a cancerous anus. The thing's teeth weren't teeth from what Cedric could see. They looked more like gills he'd see when gutting a fish. He took all that in in the second he used to aim. It would stay with him for the rest of his life. _Snap_. He hit it in the snout, dead centre. Its head snapped backwards, the bluish ichor that the thing had for blood and a black lump of stuff spraying out the back of its head. A loud roar went up from the dark gloom of the snow-covered town. "Here they come!" Rose cried out, a mad cackle escaping the girl's mouth. And she was right. They were coming.

Fleur and Krum backed up their two friends (and since when had they become friends?), casting spells at the monsters the two in front of them missed. _Snap Snap Click!_ was heard from Ced's side, his already pallid face turning a deathly shade of white. "Rose! I'm out!" The girl didn't stop reloading her gun, merely nodding while pulling the bolt back to show she'd heard before firing once more. _Crack!_ "Do you have more ammo to give?"

_Crack! "_Not right now!_" Crack! "_Shut up and start casting!_"_

"Okay!" Cedric said over the din of the dead and dying beasts littering the doorway, hitting stones and walls close to the beasts with reductos while Fleur shot fireballs at the creatures and Krum just cast as many blasting curses as he could.

Meanwhile, Rose was in a fugue state. _Fire, five rounds, pull bolt back, push bolt forward, aim, fire, four rounds, push bolt-_ ran through her mind over and over again. These weren't monsters she was firing at anymore. It was the blonde stick-lady shouting at her for not doing the dishes right. _Fire_. The blonde pig that relentlessly hit her whenever others weren't watching. _Fire_. The Fat Man. _Fire_. The slaver. _Fire._ All her enemies, memories come back to haunt her, taunt her and kill her. No ammo left. No time to dig any out of the pack. Fix bayonets. Kill them. Gut them. Prove to them you are not scared. Prove to them that you are not a slave. _Kill them! Prove them wrong! Kill_!

The first notion that the others had that something was about to change was a strangled scream coming from Rose. She rose up, her rifle with a blade attached to the end of it pointing at one of the approaching monsters. With a cry of incoherent rage, the 14-year-old jumped at the massive Demiguise, a roar of "Charge!" barely audible underneath the bellow of one that seeks murder.

Fleur took that as her cue, switching her wand to her non-dominant hand and drawing Rose's bone sword with one quick movement, her avian features breaking through thanks to the fatigue and anger at these things that wanted to eat them. Krum and Cedric looked at each other, nodded wearily and took the flanks, facing the dozen glowing beasts with the wary acceptance that all would be over, one way or another, quite soon.

While the enchanted flames roared to either side of her, Rose gutted, punched, bit and smacked the butt of her rifle into the main mass of creatures, gaining a myriad of nicks, gashes and open wounds for her trouble. She screamed in rage at the host even as the terrifying appearance of a transformed Veela rained fire and sword down on their beleaguered foe.

The beasts had lost many of their number that day. Too many fathers, sons, mothers and daughters had braved the hall, looking for the easy kill of a bunch of exhausted mages. Instead, they found spears that spewed fire and death. They found a floor that would eat your feet while a flame would engulf you. And now, they found the enraged monster with blood-red hair tearing at them with a spear of her own. They saw a bird-like creature screaming at them while tearing their throats out and setting them on fire. The saw two tired mages who yet held their ground against the horde. And they broke. And fled. It would be the last any human ever saw of the demiguise colony in the Dancing Forest. Those that weren't claimed by the cold and the wounds... starved to death.

* * *

_Five minutes to midnight_

As the last of the glowing figures receded into the distance, Fleur limped towards the door. She hadn't come out of the battle unscathed, none of them had. But for her, transformation was not just a figurative pain. The rage and anger full transformation brought on was due to the sheer agony of having bones and limbs reform almost instantaneously, the pain coming gradually to the fore over time in order to fuel whatever need for which she transformed. But she would pay for it tonight. Oh yes, she would pay. Yet, right now, the high of survival worked in her favour. She limped to the doors, deliberately _not _looking down and _not_ listening to the squelch underfoot lest she cap the night off with a nice vomiting session. The doors, battered and broken as they were, still shut with a BANG. A quick _coloportus_ later and she was drifting back towards where the others lay around the altar, the blood, viscera and spent shell-casings surrounding them deliberately ignored in favour of the glorious bedding they now lay down upon. Krum was just staring at the ceiling. Cedric, ever helpful, passed a bottle of some potion or other to Fleur. She looked down at herself. Her travelling robes were now just so much tattered rags. She was covered head to toe in Demiguise blood, Veela blood, Harpy blood, mud, ash, water, grime and a dozen other unnameable and probably magically resistant substances she would have to wash off the old-fashioned way. Just like Cedric. Just like Krum. She felt horrible. Unclean. _Dirty_.

And Rose... back when the fight had finished, the three of them had thought her dead. There was simply no way someone could survive with those wounds on her. And yet here she was, the worst-looking of them all, a dozen potions dribbling out of her mouth along the blackish red ridges her blood had taken after she'd bitten her tongue in battle. Her uniform, which had been brand new back when she'd given them the 'gift' of the centaur, was now little more than a bra and tattered pants. The black & blue bruising indicated that she had broken her left shoulder somehow. There were cuts everywhere, to the point where it looked like someone had done a piss-poor job trying to flay the girl alive, some stab wounds still carried the bony, serrated edge of the spear in them and Fleur was pretty sure that she could see Rose's teeth through the hole in her right cheek. But, despite all this, the girl was grinning. Gleefully. The Veela felt a sense of horror well up in her. How can someone surrounded by all this... _Grin_?

The girl just looked up at her, glowing green eyes sparking in recognition of Fleur's emotions and just said two words; "We won."

And then she passed out, allowing the mending potions to do their work. Fleur didn't even notice when she started crying.

* * *

"Day two finished."

Across magical Britain, silence reigned. You could have heard a pin drop in a Great Hall packed with officials, journalists, politicians and judges. The leaky cauldron's drinking population stared at the viewing mirror in horror at the slaughter they'd just witnessed, any thoughts of drink or girls blown clear out of their minds. The clubs in Knockturn alley went quiet, one brawl simply interrupted by the Berserker charge of the Girl-who-lived, the whole lot of them staring at the specially installed mirror in awe. Then the clapping started. Dumbledore, watching the display over at his brother's pub and clapping in time with the other punters while the pompous idiots made a mockery of themselves in the Great Hall just grinned at the display and saluted the girl. She reminded him so much of himself & Gellert back in the day. Why, if he was a tad younger he would have considered it frightening.

**_A/N:_**_ Why? Why, you ask? Because it's baaad-asss *insert gratuitous metal riff here*. Oh, and for the gratuitous use of French and German? I regret nothing! HaHa!_


	9. The career tribute, a short background

_A/N: just a little addendum for you all while I work on day three of the Forest War. It's a copper-plated bitch, so it's taking a while, but here's something of a prequel and my take on the Hunger Games 'verse backstory to tie you over. Not sure if really canon or not, so if I did make any spectacular mistakes in that sense I'd like you to tell me. By the way, should I turn this into a full story? If you think so, tell me. If not, tell me. I've found myself fascinated with Panem since the movie and actually seeing how that culture was presented on-screen gave me a bit of a 'hang on, _why_ are they doing this again?' in a way the books never really did, so here's my take on them. Uh, enjoy._

* * *

The way Panem kept the peace can be described in twelve words; send the militia, hold with soldiers, pacify with peacekeepers. Each element had its role to play; the militia killed whoever opposed the invasion, the soldiers made sure none of the locals stabbed the militia in the back and the peacekeepers were specialists at breaking and conditioning the population to Panem's will.

There were, of course, complications.

The territory formerly known as the United States had suffered three major wars on its soil over a fifty-year period. Nobody knew how it happened. Nobody knew who did what, when and where. All that _was_ certain was that, at the end of those three wars, well over eighty percent of North America was left uninhabitable, a devastated wasteland ravaged by radiation, chemical contamination and nanite storms. The Capitol of Panem was an enigma; somehow, that little patch of civilisation had remained untouched by the ravages of fifty years' worth of apocalyptic warfare, its infrastructure, knowledge base, tech levels and food production capabilities only slightly diminished while the rest of what used to be North America was a radioactive pile of molten slag.

There was a documented period of roughly two hundred years' worth of peace where all the remaining enclaves banded together under the flag of the Golden Eagle and rebuilt civilisation from Panem outwards. Close to a hundred separate communities sprouted up and flourished under a democratic leadership, the representatives looking out for the interests of the men & women absolutely committed to rebuilding and spreading civilisation outside of their world's borders. At least, that had been the idea.

Nobody knows what caused disparate communities to secede and declare themselves a separate country under District 13's leadership. Dozens of seemingly prosperous societies, autonomous enough to enforce their own laws, foster their industries and provide for all their citizens turned against the Capitol and its allies, the factories switching production from goods to weapons, their citizens turning into soldiers and their food going to feed the rebels rather than commercial ventures. Some speculate that it was religion. Others that it was ideology. Yet more armchair historians theorise that it was the proceeds of the Capitol's annual congressional meeting, the transcripts of which have since been classified for the President's eyes only, that caused the blow-out.

One thing was for sure, the following war dwarfed all three that preceded them in terms of horror.

The rebel faction had built itself a massive army replete with weapons that had only been talked about in history books a mere year beforehand; tanks, walkers, aircraft, kinetic weapons platforms, combat sats, hell, even a navy was assembled within twelve months of the Federated Republic of Panem being broken up. Facing them was a force of inexperienced militiamen fighting using equipment that was two hundred years old at the very least. It was a massacre.

Panem, facing the very unpleasant idea that, this time around, the Capitol could well fall and burn much like its sister cities had during the great wars of long ago, dug out everything they could find involving genetic engineering and Terraforming research. Originally meant to adapt wildlife and humans to the demands of hostile environments until they could be cleaned and re-natured as it were, the two century's worth of research into engineering new organisms to suit specific purposes was put to a decidedly more questionable use.

The militia had proven useful, digging in and fortifying in order to buy the rest of Panem enough time to train new soldiers and produce more modernised weapons. By the time the army took over, almost all of them had died. Normal winters were harsh enough; surviving in a wasteland where the snow contained toxins that ate through steel as easily as they induced gangrene was impossible. But, by the end of that season, the army was ready to deliver artificial beasties to their new home.

Everyone remembered the hell-hounds, trackerjackers and various other animals that had been contained as best they could. What everyone tended to forget was that they weren't the main biological weapon used in those dark days. The two most popular bioweapons were virus bombs and modified cordyceps cultures;

The virus bomb would be deployed in a vector like, say, a valley that acted as a wind tunnel or a river that wound up passing close to a Rebel stronghold. The virus would jump to animals that would act as carriers, inducing slight fevers in the critters but nothing more. They would infect another animal, then another and another until the virus hit a human settlement. If they were loyal to Panem, then a vaccination nanite suite will have been added to the population's food and water supplies. If they weren't, then the virus would jump from the animal to the human, who would incubate the virus for a week before coming down with a mild flu. This guy or girl would be the only human incubator the virus would choose. Afterwards, every person they met, every location they visited would be contaminated by the virus. While it didn't kill its host, it lived in the lungs, sweat glands and reproductive organs of said host, constantly pumping out in every infectious manner possible. The host would be a bit weaker, but not noticeably. And the incubation period for the new victims would be two weeks. What happened next was in line with the design of the virus.

Ebola Panem was a thing of deadly beauty. It was a filovirus whose base design was discovered in a clandestine biowarfare lab sitting deep in the Canadian wilds. There were no marks or symbols in the lab to indicate who funded it and why, no personnel files were left and no identifiable remains were buried anywhere within thirty kilometres of the site. All that was left when a bunch of Salvage hunters stumbled upon it was a single external hard-drive that mapped out a fully programmable version of the Ebola Reston virus. In Gaelic. The Panem scientists copied the research and slapped a few proteins to it to allow for a more fluid species-to-species infection process, programmed the specifics into it and let fly. The first thing the Rebels knew about it was when, a month into the spring season, two of the biggest Rebel cities around had nine out of ten of its citizens vomit their stomach lining onto the floor, bleed out of every orifice and die screaming within minutes of the symptoms manifesting themselves. Weapons production ground to a halt for months after that as the Rebels had to train their prisoners to take up the slack while the survivors were examined.

The virus bomb was deadly and demoralising on a scale only rarely heard about before. The infection was subtle, targeted and a total surprise to the enemy. By comparison, the Cordyceps fungi were simply terror weapons.

Picture this, a column of mechanised infantry is rolling across a devastated wasteland. Planes pop up on the sensor grid, AA platforms open fire, planes blow up. Debris and what at first glance seems to be ash rains down from the sky. Ashes disperse over an unusually wide area right in the path of the oncoming column. Column rolls through it, 'coz it's just ash, right? A few hours later, the air filters are clogging up and a weird smoke permeates the inside of the vehicles.

Column calls a halt. Minutes later, all communications cease with that column. No screaming, no noise, no explosions. The vehicles just stop and don't get started up again. A day later, a crew is dispatched to see what happened. Did they hit something bizarre? Was it an EMP? A spec ops squad? Did they all up and take a leak? Answers are needed, so they send the crew in. The column is found sitting in the middle of nowhere, the soldiers are just ambling about, the tanks, cars and APCs are left unattended, engines still rumbling idly. The crew intercepts one of the soldiers. He/She's a drooling vegetable. Every single one of the soldiers is acting as if they were lobotomised, walking around in a daze and not responding to outside stimuli. The crew reports in, takes the column's CO back with them. When they arrive, the CO collapses, convulsing in the middle of the camp. That's when the man or woman deflates like a balloon, releasing white ash into the compound and infecting the entire area with Cordyceps spores. The camp goes unresponsive the next day.

While the virus bombs targeted industrial areas and cities, the Cordyceps spores were the main frontline biological agent, deployed specifically to kill as many soldiers as it could. Its ability to carry on the wind, reproduce in the incredibly hostile environment of military-grade air scrubbers and lie dormant for months on end allowed the fungus to spread far and wide across the Rebel frontlines. Once infected, there was no cure. Victims lost control of their nervous system, the fungus taking over everything and eating the victim from the inside out. Sensing the presence of new potential hosts thanks to the connection to its victim's cerebellum, the production of new spores went into overdrive, crashing the victim's body and eating up within an hour. By the end of the second year, the mere rumour of there being a Cordyceps infection in the area was enough to cause large swathes of Rebels to defect their posts and seek shelter in the closest available city. Some of those deserters were infected.

It worked spectacularly. Too spectacularly, in fact. The use of fungi as biowarfare agents had been extensively researched, cures could be developed quickly but they simply were too expensive to just hand out willy-nilly. It didn't help that a large number of these cures relied on nanotech, an area that was far more dangerous and unpredictable than mere biology to mess around with. The cure was just as likely to kill the hapless soldier as it was to save them. So large-scale fungal vaccines and cures were not handed out to just about anyone, a decision that cost Panem several cities of its own by the end. That, too, was due to a design failure; the Rebels had simply captured a few of the fungal strains and lobbed them at cities that they wanted to wipe out. Since the fungal strains were keyed to attack humans rather than just the Rebels themselves, this proved to be an effective counter-attack/siege-breaker... as long as the Rebels didn't mind losing whoever was delivering the agent, that is.

The Rebellion ended after District 13 was bombed into oblivion. The Rebels, unfortunately, didn't get the memo and kept on fighting. After District 13 was wiped, it took Panem an additional five years to regain complete control over whatever enclaves had not been levelled by the attacks. Territory-wise, Panem was left with less habitable space than when it had become a federated Republic after the wars. Where once there were close to a hundred large communities, only twelve remained, all of them with only a tiny percentage capable of having children.

A census conducted prior to the schism had counted a hundred and twenty-seven million people eking out a living throughout the FRP. The first census conducted after the war only had twenty million survivors outside of Capitol city limits. If you counted District 13 and the Capitol, you had maybe thirty million people left in Panem, most of them either geriatric or barely in their teens. A solution was needed to provide the remaining population with an incentive to bear as many children as possible. There was also the issue of trust, namely how to subjugate the former rebel communities in such a way that rebelling again would be unthinkable without having to unleash the terrifying power of Panem's biological armoury again. The solution proposed neatly disposed of both these problems. That solution was the Hunger Games.

It was a resounding success. For the cost of only twenty-three casualties a year, a cost that was far lower than the fatalities due to animal attacks or left-over AP mines, Panem entered a sustained population boom. Every family strove to have a minimum of five or six children in order to offset both the environmental toll and the risk of losing a family member to the games. And since the chances of losing a child to the hunger games was, despite the ever-present threatening feeling, statistically insignificant when taking into account the ever larger populations prevalent in the outer districts, this meant that the population tended to double every decade, on average, starting ten years after the end of the Rebellion.

The threat of including all children of a rebelling District into one gigantic Hunger Game was enough to deter any further attempts at secession as well. Quite apart from the lingering memories of people collapsing and bleeding out when they'd been just fine half an hour ago to the nightmarish scenes of panicking soldiers trying to flee from their zombified comrades breathing ash all over the place and the fear of being torn apart by anything from man-sized dogs wearing human faces to being eaten alive by weaponised ants, nobody wanted to risk the Capitol making a spectacle out of publicly executing every single child under the age of eighteen.

Panem had turned terror into a viable addition to their rebuilding effort. It was an uncomfortable approach, but it worked. As for the viruses and fungi, one of their key design features was a generational kill-switch. After a given number of reproductive cycles, the fungi and viruses shut down and their protein chains dissolved, letting them fall prey to the bacteria in the air and soil and feeding a new growth cycle. The forests were planted and had their growth accelerated thanks to a combination of bio-engineering and terraform-capable plants & nutrients being dispersed across the wastelands. It took seventy years for the forests, grasslands and assorted greenery to reclaim North America. Just in time for Rose Snow to enter the last phase of the reclamation effort; taking back what was once theirs.

* * *

_A/N: And there you have it; a deeply wounded, deeply divided country that was rendered insane by the things its citizens did and the choices they made. It also explains just why a bunch of rag-tag rebels managed to topple Panem in the end; with their forces spread out too thin trying to reclaim as much land as possible from the hands of the leftover barbarians and such, there simply weren't enough people left to secure the Capitol. Oops, mistake. _

_This also explains Evil!Rose; she was raised in a winner takes all mindset amongst people who knew that murder, terror & genocide were what had secured their existence in the first place and allowed their civilisation to survive. With people to spare, insane levels of competition and a social ladder that was about as flexible as the Indian caste system used to be, killing your opponents was often the only guarantee of success. In other words, she's not necessarily a psycho, but she is the product of a psychotic education system where schoolyard rivalries ended with one or more of the participants dead. And, given that she thrived in such an environment, it's easy to see what her problem-solving skills were geared towards in this 'verse. The language is an affection on her part, really; witty one-liners and swear words are more of a source of amusement to her when she sees the reaction of her Hogwarts peers to them than anything else. To elicit such a response from a tribute trainee normally involves a knife to their gut, so Rose is pretty much reliving her highlight reel of kills every time she opens her mouth around Percy or Neville. Charming girl._


	10. Evey the Vampire Slayer

__Evey the Vampire Slayer- a BTVS/HP crossover_  
_

_Lily Potter was the most successful Slayer of the 20__th__ century, having made it to the age of 22 before dying. Can her daughter Eveline will live long enough to best that record? Or will the Highlands' Hellmouth claim another Vampire Slayer_?

**Disclaimer: I do not own either Buffy The Vampire Slayer or Harry Potter. If I did, I would have commissioned a true-to-size statue of myself out of solid gold and installed it in front of a UNESCO office. Instead, I am writing fanfiction on a Friday night. For fun. Yay!**

* * *

The chasm was tiny, so tiny that it would have barely fit Evy if she'd gone down there. It was in the middle of a dark forest, at the centre of a clearing surrounded by the debris of fauna long gone. So small, yet she could feel the malevolence wafting off it. She looked around, spotting odd bits of sharp wood jutting out of the ground, threatening to impale her feet if she didn't watch where she was going.

A twig snapped, causing her to look up. In front of the chasm, a young red-headed woman smiled down at her, her blood-covered dress making the fabric cling to her curves. Her expression was one of happiness, laced with a touch of pain & anguish. She leaned down and picked up one of the sharpened bits of wood, tossing it to Evey as the young girl stared.

She caught it without even thinking, the shaft of the pointy stick feeling as if she'd been born with it in hand. She opened her palm to take a closer look. _Good Luck_ was carved into the base. What?

The redhead stopped smiling and fell backwards into the hole. A bright flash drowned out her world with sound & light, faces and memories flashing by as she lost herself in the glare of sunlight.

She heard a scream in the distance getting steadily closer. w_ake up, wake Up, Wake Up, Wake UP-_

"WAKE UP!" the harsh banging on the door to her cupboard startled her awake, causing her to fall out of her cot. Eveline Potter's new day was off to a scorching good start.

* * *

"Cage, huh? That's got to be dead boring."

The snake just looked at her before nodding. The young girl just chuckled before nodding.

"Yeah, I know that feeling too. So, Brazil huh?"

The snake tapped the sign. _Bred in captivity_.

"Ah, right. Me too."

All of a sudden, Piers came up to run & shove her out of the way. Before either of them even knew what was happening, Evey's hand snapped out and laid the boy out cold. Nobody was paying attention though, since the glass surrounding the vivarium disappeared. Blinking, she looked down at the boa constrictor and smirked.

"So, want to go for a ride?"

"_Si, amiga. I'd love to._"

* * *

The door to the cottage opened without a sound. A man dressed completely in a deep black robe glided into the property, completely ignoring the shotgun Vernon was pointing at him. He looked around the cottage until he laid his eyes on a girl sitting in a shadowy corner. He smiled at her, the upturn of his lips completely at odds with the cold look in his eyes.

"Eveline Potter." The voice held a cultured and vaguely condescending tone. "You have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. Here is your letter of acceptance and your list of supplies. Please write down 'I accept', followed by your signature and date of acceptance at the bottom of the letter." He handed her a sheaf of papers and sat down in the sofa, seemingly ignoring the gaping Dursleys. "And _do_ get on with it, I would like to leave before sunrise if ever possible."

Rose looked down at the paper, pen in hand. "Excuse me?"

The man sighed. "Yes?"

"When you leave... Can I come with you?"

He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"Can. I. Come. With. You?"

"Hmm..." The man though for a second. "You would trust a total stranger over your relatives?"

She stared at him with a deadpan expression. "Have you met my relatives?"

He finally focused on the muggles surrounding him. Petunia was there, acting just like she had the last time he'd seen her fifteen years ago. Her whale of a husband was still pointing a shotgun at him. And junior whale-in-training was staring at him like he was the second coming of Satan. "... I shall see what can be done."

"Great." She signed the papers quickly. "Just wait while I go and find Diego."

"Diego? And who would that be?" the man asked.

"My pet snake, of course." She said, clutching what looked like a coil of thick rope in her hands but turned out to be a bloody Boa Constrictor. "_Say hello Diego_" she told the snake, not realising that she'd started hissing.

"_Hello Diego. I hate that name..._" He hissed at her snickering form.

Severus, meanwhile, had gone pale as a sheet. The girl-who-lived was a parseltongue. Great. Just bloody great.

* * *

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Evey was confused. Why was everyone staring at her & Diego like she had grown a second head?

"What?" She asked the shocked wizards.

* * *

The troll roared at her and the other girl in the bathroom. She'd just stopped by to go to the toilet! Why did this stuff happen to her?

She ducked as the club almost painted the floor with her face, her strange abilities surfacing once more. She rolled to the side as the troll changed the horizontal backswing into a vertical slash, kicking a petrified & screaming Hermione in the gut. Said girl sailed into the one undamaged cubicle, the impact of her body denting the hardwood frame & closing the door behind her.

Evey grimaced at the CRUNCH, hoping that she hadn't done _too _much damage to the depressed girl. Then she grimaced again when she realised that she'd taken her eyes off the blood-thirsty troll thing rushing at her with deceptive speed.

She jumped to the side, once again narrowly avoiding being pancaked by the club that weighed about four times more than she did. Hitting the ground running she outflanked the confused troll and kicked him in the knee. Yep, that definitely hurt if the bellow of pain and loss of balance was anything to go by. Too bad that the bone didn't snap or that the blow only seemed to piss the big guy off.

She jumped away quickly, evading the instinctive side-swipe and follow-up club-swipe as best she could. Unfortunately, she didn't avoid the kick the troll totally nailed her with.

The cubicle door exploded inwards, the magic holding the door together failing under Evey's unintended role as a wrecking ball. She felt her lower back impact against the porcelain watertank while the back of her head went to second base with the wall. Dazed and confused, she barely noticed the newly awakened and now hyper-ventilating brunette that lay pinned underneath her, her panicked breaths and shaking limbs no longer registering with the stunned girl.

Evey got up, shaking her head and limbs as if she were performing warm-up exercises in a gym instead of in the middle of a destroyed bathroom. She reached for her glasses and found that they were still lying in the toilet stall, broken in half by her date with the porcelain fixtures. That was it. Nobody messed with her glasses, ever. Troll-thing was going down.

She stood over the unconscious beast, troll club handle firmly in her grasp as she prepared to swing a weapon that was at least twice her size onto the back of the stunned monster's head. She lifted the handle up, braced her hurting legs and -

Faltered when she heard clapping coming from the doorway. There stood Severus Snape, face kept carefully blank, slapping the palms together in what would have been a congratulatory manner coming from anyone but him.

"Well done, Miss Potter. Tell me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a Gryffindor first year anywhere in the vicinity, have you?"

* * *

She looked down at the book the disgruntled Potions Master had shoved into her hand, the heavy tome as light as a feather in her grasp. The word VAMPYR positively leapt out at her.

"So I'm a Vampire Slayer."

"Yes, the only one in all the magical world, chosen to defeat the forces of darkness and so on and so forth. The actual wording's on the introductory page, I suggest you read it. In fact, this is going to be your main book for the next few weeks, so you'll read it either way. Suffice to say, if anything evil rises up and threatens the world, you are expected to fight alongside the staff & faculty in defence of it."

"And why is she here with us?" Eveline said, waving at the perennially shy Gryffindor brunette that she'd saved the night before.

"She is there because, while I am expected to take up the duties of Watcher if no-one better happens to be handy, I am still a professor & head of house and cannot, therefore, fulfill my duties to the extent a Watcher is expected to. Hence why the entire faculty is obligated to assist you, the raft of privileges are enabled to make your life more bearable and a fellow student of yours is assigned to be your assistant."

"What?" The bushy brunette cried out, quick on the uptake as always. "And what makes you think that I will agree to this?"

"Because, should you accept, you will be given prefect privileges, you get a permanent pass to the library's restricted session, you get to train alongside Miss Potter and you are given one-on-one tutoring by the best wizards & witches available in any field you care to study. Oh, and you both get a stipend of five hundred galleons a year for expenses."

He smirked at the Gryffindor girl's sparkle-eyed expression. "There are added responsibilities further on, mind you. Any questions about those, Miss Granger?... Thought not. Now, Miss Potter, about that fight with the troll..."

* * *

"Hey girl. Time to wake up." Hannah Abbot said as she walked up to her dorm mate. Sally-Anne Perks was one of those lazy 'Puffs, the kind that slept in until either her friends dragged her out of bed or Professor Sprout charmed the bed to throw her out. The past two months of school had shown Hannah that, come saturdays & sundays, the best place to find her companion was in her bed, snoring the morning away. Except that Hannah's voice was normally enough to wake the girl up.

"Hey." Hannah exclaimed at the girl, finally noticing the lack of snoring coming from her friend. "Hey!" She went to shake the girl awake, but only got as far as the tugging. The frozen look of horror on the dead girl's ultra-pale face saw to that.

* * *

"So we have a Vampire running around the school?" Eve asked, a bit disturbed that one of the blood-suckers had snuck in and out of the Hufflepuff dorms without anyone noticing. "Got any ideas on how it infiltrated the dorms sir?"

"None, I am afraid." Severus said as he smashed a bag of Goblin's toenails with a hammer. He was far more brutal than usual too, given that even a basket-case of a teacher like Snape was still a teacher at heart. Losing a talented child you had spent time teaching was both a tragedy & a waste, a fact that made Perks' loss that much more bitter. Hufflepuff had lost its best potions talent potential in close to a decade only two months into the beginning of the year. "Start by looking up _Hogwarts, a History _while Hermione & Filch investigate the dorms."

Evey nodded.

"Oh, and Miss Potter? Try whittling a stake _before _ going on patrol this time, alright?" He said, quirking an eyebrow at the blushing girl.

* * *

The following day, Sally-Anne's corpse went missing from the Hogsmeade morgue.

* * *

"Ah, so a new slayer has been chosen." Quirrel stated, twisting the Ring of Amara round and round as he stared at the crypt's walls. His newly acquired minions grunted and hissed, their transformation still too fresh for the post-siring feral traits to have completely disappeared yet. "I want her!" He shouted at them. "The one to bring her to me can have the run of the Slytherin girl's dorms for a month! Those who don't, I shall stake myself!"

He shifted to his game face as his minions fell over themselves to go and find the Slayer. "Find her! Bring her to me-alive!" He grinned wickedly as he licked his fangs in anticipation. "What fun would it be if she was already on our side, huh?"

The ring glowed with eldritch power, the soul shard contained within laughing at the audacity of this wannabe master vamp. Unlike the arrogant prick currently using his priceless horcrux to take a stroll out in the sun every now & then, Lord Voldemort had fought both magical and non-magical Slayers before Lily Potter sacrificed herself in the name of 'screw you too'. No matter who the girl turned out to be, hell even if she was a squib, a Slayer was more than a match for this fledgling acting far too big for his boots. That is, unless Quirinus manages to fulfill his side of the bargain early and grabs the Philosopher's Stone before he goes up against the Slayer.

Then, yes, then he'd have a chance. After all, a group of fledgling vampires had trouble handling a paper bag at times. But vampires headed by a Dark Lord... now that was a different story.

Only time would tell what decision Quirrell will make. Voldemort hoped he made the wrong one. If the Slayer ever picked up anymore than the ring, then the game would be up even before he could say 'boo'.

* * *

**A/N: **So, whaddya think? I got tired of all the 'x gets reincarnated as y' crap and the whole YAHF take on crossovers that I decided to go the other way, namely what if the Power He Knew Not was whatever special personal upgrades a Slayer gets for herself. So here's another idea instead; much like how the muggle & magical world are separated, so are the muggle & magical Watcher's Councils separated too. Less 'witch trials' and more 'wands & wicca don't mix well' as a reason, so there is a lot of co-operation... Just not at Slayer/entry-level Watcher level.

There are, in fact, two Slayers, one magical, one not, each handling their own side of things. This is because the Slayer Line emergency activation protocols used to be known to the Watcher's Councils before the Secrecy Act, but had gotten accidentally erased during the early years of the schism, meaning that the Council used to know how to split the line & call more Slayers, but not anymore. Willow rediscovers how to do it by accident, really.

Anyhoo, magical Slayers deal with the hellmouths, demons & vampires native to magical rather than general society. Said entities are far tougher than on the standard hellmouths since the ambient magic is a lot higher close to magical practitioner settlements than anywhere else. Add in the fact that wizards & witches that get turned actually get a boost in magical ability as well as a fraction of the knowledge from the mind of the demon possessing the body and you get some pretty shitty odds. The waters are further muddied by the fact that there are diseases that induce something that looks a lot like vampirism (pale, hatred of the sunlight, hunger for blood), but leaves the soul of the person in charge. Sanguini is such a vamp, but the fact that they have souls paradoxically makes them meaner than the run-of-the-mill demonic mooks.

Lily was the best magical Slayer in the last 200 years. Snape was her first companion, but left when social pressures and a growing Dark Magic addiction destroyed Lily's trust in him. The whole mudblood thing didn't help. He was replaced by the marauders who, thanks to their adventures through the Forest where the Hellmouth is located, know a thing or two about the stuff that goes bump in the night out there. When she sacrificed herself, she didn't just give Evey protection; she unwittingly passed the Slayer mojo onto her newborn daughter, something that kept her alive when Dudley, who would not be repelled by the blood protection, beat her to scrap every day at school. The line only activates when she turns ten and socks Piers in the jaw.

After Halloween, Snape figures it out and becomes her Watcher. Evey drags in Hermione, Tonks, Cedric and a number of others... who mostly die. Hermione stays alive for longer than anyone else and becomes a decent Necromancer as she ends up reviving most of Eve's companions before the end of the year so that Eve stops blaming herself every time an ally keels over dead or gets vamped. She instructs Luna & Ginny so that she has backup that can revive _her_. Not the best idea ever, a fact that I'd capitalise on since Luna & Ginny become Tara & Willow mirror-images. Black-haired Luna out to destroy the world. Who'll save her? Who knows?

Hellmouth's in the forbidden forest, Voldemort is actually trying to pull a Wilkins (as are Croaker, Fudge and Grindelwald) while Dumbledore is _completely oblivious_. As in, Snape can't tell him, Eve won't tell him and Fawkes just laughs every time Eve gets her Slayer on and the silver doo-dads go nuts.

Suffice to say, Eve would have her plate full. It's not just Voldie plus whatever creature of the week happens to be within Imperiusing distance, but rather Voldie + vampires + Demons + Watcher's Councilmen + the British Initiative and, of course, Ethan Rayne for that little extra something. Everybody's in over their heads, nobody's got a clue about what is happening and the Goblins are trying to summon Glorificus to Gringotts.

Fun for all the family.


	11. Unsung Villains

**Unsung Villains**

_Okay, here's something for all you peeps out there to ponder; have you ever read a story from the henchman's perspective? I've only ever read one story that had something like that in it and that was 'Guards!Guards!' by Terry Pratchett which, if you haven't read it yet, do so. Now. Anyway, back on topic. There are some 'here's for the unsung heroes' stories out there that show the story from the perspective of the random dude tagging along. There's even one series known as 'the Black Company' series that deals with the adventures of a band of mercenaries. But you rarely, if ever, get a story told from the minion's perspective. Not the policeman, the random protagonists' attache or some such but a story from the perspective of the dude that's getting paid to delay the hero for half a millisecond while the villain makes a break for it. I wanted to remedy that. Hence, this short Prologue I wrote up that tells the tale of the epic struggle between heroes and villains... with the random minion/henchman as the pro/antagonist in the tale. Set in the Batman universe since, hey, every episode/movie/comic features at least five of the poor bastards getting the stuffing kicked out of them, falling off buildings, being killed by irate villains or just plain being blown up during the showdown. Lotsa stories to tell there. Enjoy!_

_By the way, as always, I don't own any of these things. If you are interested in giving me the rights to this, though, I shall not object in the slightest._

* * *

Do you want to know what a hero is? No? Well, too bad, cause it's part of the story. A hero, when push comes to shove, is a conscript in an all-volunteer army. Where people fight because they want to, a hero fights because he or she has to. Be it duty, obligation, blackmail, morals, the hero fights against his/her will or better judgement while everyone else fights because, deep down, they want to fight. You'll hear all this romantic bullshit about farmboys fighting evil, mythical chosen ones slaying monsters and various other avatars of everything good and noble kicking evil's ass. But take a moment to read between the lines here.

Here's a good example for you: Why is the farmboy picked up? He grew up on a farm, the only interaction with society being his local village and the fair maiden that'll grow up to serve beer in the local tavern. He's never known war, little crime, disease, ruin or any other of the assorted risks one tends to pick up upon in civilised countries. So when the time comes, the good guy mentors shanghai the rural rube and tell him that he's got the chance of leaving with them to find some kind of destiny foretold in a dusty tome whose only surviving copy _just happens_ to belong to one of the good guy mentors. Of course he's going to follow, not really understanding just what it is the old people are actually asking of him.

Think that's a choice? Stare at the ice & snow coming and going forty times before old age catches you off-guard. Go adventuring. Watch crops grow day-in, day-out. Fight beasts of myth & legend for fun & profit. Still think that's a choice? No way he's going to say no unless he's already got into the probably not so fair maiden's pants. And that's just the way the mentors like it. Gullible, over-reliant, pliable and easily manipulated through gratitude at getting off the farm and guilt at not facing the enemy quickly enough. The boy knows nothing of the outside world, having to rely heavily on his companions to lead the way, perception forever influenced by his mentor's biases long before their little troupe comes within sight of the first town.

See why the farmboy is such a popular source of hero material? And why, despite having had a prophecy foretell of the hero's coming, none of his oh-so-powerful mentors ever got the idea of training him _before_ he begins his prophesied journey? Because it's not ability that's the desirable trait here; that's what the inevitable companions are for. The desirable trait is having as blank a slate as possible to work with, so that the boy can be told who the proper enemies and who the proper heroes are on the off-chance that the gullible bastard survives long enough to claim whatever rewards are in store at the end.

And even the slightest bit of experience when it comes to human society changes things drastically. Where the farmboy goes 'why me?', the greatest fool from a decent-sized town is likely to go 'fuck this, find someone else to deal with this crap'. If one of those is the hero, then a substantial piece of leverage is needed to keep the would-be protagonist on the right track. Anything from bribery to blackmail is fair game here, the objective being to keep the fucker in line long enough to fulfil whatever mythical destiny crap has been shovelled onto the good guys by the powers On High before he or she can be safely disposed of.

To call someone a hero is either to call them stupid or to call them a slave. It's the ultimate insult, something that denigrates whatever you may have achieved over the years. Those people you saved? Oh, sure, you're a hero, good work buddy, see you at the next disaster! Defeat the evil army? Right, nice work, even with that divine assistance you got going for yourself. Successful in trade & business? Well that's just cheating. A hero that's both heroic _and_ rich? Are you sure he hasn't turned bad?

Every single thing a hero does is cheapened by the fact that the dude or girl doing it is called a hero.

Now me, I'm no hero. Oh sure, I'm brave, loyal, hardworking, real salt-of-the-earth kinda guy. Except when I'm not, but that's a story for another time. But I'm not a hero. Heroes don't steal. They don't work for people with a penchant for the nastier things in life. They don't rig bombs, hack computers or do the hundred other little things that earn me money on a daily basis. Me, I'm a minion. Henchman. Lackey. Generic evil guy that gets laid out cold when the hero comes a-calling.

I'm a goon.

Right now, I'm on day two of a month-long stint of working with the Penguin. Me and the gang, we decided to skip town when the third syndicate in a row tried to get control of downtown Bludhaven. We used to have a name, real spiffy one too, but that's all in the past now. A few of us decided to stay behind and join up with the South Siders. It's been less than a week and two of those idiots are already dead. Gang wars have a tendency to do that, who'da thunk it? For the rest of us, we put a call to an old friend of ours that still owes us big for hiding him when the cops came looking and he hooked us up with this Cobblepot dude.

He's a dick but the pay's good, he's a stand-up dude even if he insults you every time he opens his goddamn mouth and the lawyers come free of charge. Got a thing for birds and stealing valuable collector's items from hard-to-rob places, which is what I signed up for anyway. His old crew got head-hunted by the Joker while Ozzie was in jail. I heard that most of 'em survived the experience, which is apparently a sign of just how good they were, but skipped town in a hurry afterwards. So Ozzie, freshly paroled, went looking, we answere d the call and now we're knee-deep in the Gotham City nightlife. Joy.

It's safe to say that, out of all the things I expected from working with the Penguin in Gotham City, being stuck guarding the rooftop was not it.

A few of the natives Ozzie hired to beef up the abandoned pet shop we were using as a base told me that this was fairly normal stuff for them. It was nothing like the stories that got passed around at the various dives me and the guys used to do security for. At the bar it's all money this, bombs that and Batman all the way. Watching the light pollution turn the two AM Gotham skyline into a weird-ass kaleidoscope of red, purple and orange was never mentioned in any of those stories, which makes me both incredibly relieved and pissed off at the same time. The upside; no superheroes likely to drop in and ruin a perfectly nice nighttime cloud-gaze. The downside; stuck on a rooftop, watching clouds pass by, freezing my ass off as I pray to whatever mystical deity presides over thugs like me for a safe night with no chance of being hauled off to jail for no good reason.

Oh look, the 2:15 AM police blimp is five minutes early. I debate with myself as to whether I should call this in or not as I watch the mini-zeppelin putter along its designated patrol route. Why was it five minutes early? A scheduling error on their side? A mistake in the scheduling files one of the guys got off a bent cop the other day? Wouldn't put it past the fat bastard if it was so. Or... was something afoot? I dither as I watch the blimp pass on by, its massive searchlights and barely concealed on-board weapons systems distracting me from the golden gleam given off by the metal undercarriage as it reflected the skylight off itself, the drab grey of the zeppelin's airtanks giving the whole thing the appearance of a royal beetle of some sort, its chitinous armour retracted to the underside as it tried to coax its wings out of their cozy little hiding spot.

I snorted at the utterly ridiculous mental image my brain had managed to plaster all over my cognitive functions. Next thing I know I'm gonna be going crazy out here. It's freaking freezing out on the roof as it is, no need to go off the deep end and take a swan dive off this spot with my underpants on my head. I shake my head and go back to watching the sky for any sign of cowboy vigilantes looking to make a name for themselves.

A muffled 'clink' comes from the far side of the rooftop, one noise amongst an even dozen that can be heard up here. Thing is that, aside from the road traffic still cheerfully chugging along, the low-level buzz of aircraft passing overhead and the constant hissing and groaning coming from the vents, _this _sound is new. And after spending four hours with nothing but skywatching and listening to do, you betcha that I know what this rooftop sounds like. And that 'clink' is not normal.

Which means that things are probably about to go wrong.

I switch on my walkie talkie and stick it on channel five, the static feedback telling me that Benny the Ham Radio guy is now but a press of a button away from listening in. I push the talking button three times, signalling that I'm gonna be hogging the airwaves for a short time. I stop and listen for a second, hoping against hope that the whole thing was just a fluke.

The telltale _crunch _of boot on gravel dashes that idea. As does the _thump_ my partner-in-roofwatching makes when his unconscious ass hits the ground.

I am now officially spooked. Someone's up here with me, someone I can't see or hear at all. Is it a cape? One of those silent killer vigilantes the Gothamites seem to love for no good reason? A super-awesome SWAT outfit? Or the Batman? Either way, I'm probably boned. Time to move.

There's a small section of piping sticking out of the floor of the roof, a heat exchange area for the steam running through the building on its way over to the factory next door I think. Not sure why they built it here, pretty crappy place for a heat exchange in my opinion, but it's large enough to duck behind and take a moment to think, so I don't really care at this point.

I take out my walkie talkie and my ever trusty roll of electrical tape. Teasing the edge a bit, I roll out a small portion and bite it off, taping down the talk button on the walkie talkie as I do so. I've got a gun on me, but don't really want to use it out here so I ditch it for the time being. Wish I'd brought my knife with me though. No firearms-related offences associated with carrying one, just a nice little tool that can be used as a weapon in a pinch. And if I'm up against crazy vigilantes, a knife is probably less likely to get me shot than a gun anyway. Still, beggars can't be choosers and getting off with a warning's kinda hard when you've fired a coupla rounds off at some nutcase. Oh well, time to go earn my pay.

The gravel crunches underneath my shoes, painfully loudly too. I am not built for stealth, that's for sure. The fact that I can hear the ground shift underfoot over my raging heartbeat confirms that. Here's to not being subtle.

"Hello? Donnie? Is that you?" I call out, my gaze failing to pierce the ever-shifting shadows prevalent on the roof. I know someone's out there and that it's not whoever my night-time shift colleague happened to be. I heard him get laid out cold, after all. This is all for the benefit of Bennie and whoever he can rustle up while I walk steadily to my doom, gravel ceremony and all. I avoid walking through the middle of the rooftop, thinking that maybe walking through the maze of steam and air vents is a bad idea when you're alone, on a rooftop, with some random dude probably stalking you just to shut you the hell up.

I keep most of my attention focused slightly towards the duct maze as I advance with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, the steady crunching of my footsteps hopefully not giving random stalker man too big an invitation. Okay, so I'm freaking the hell out here. Give me a break. Occasionally, I glance over the side of the building, remembering some of the veteran henches talking about being sneak-attacked from that direction more than once.

"Hey man, what's the big idea?" I whine in a fake exasperated tone of voice, steadily getting closer to the other dude's side of the roof. I stop behind the shack-like outcropping that leads to the stairwell and blessed safety downstairs, struggling to get my breathing under control. I just hope that whatever I walk into on this side doesn't include blood, guts or similar nasties. Because if it does, I'm running straight back to pick up my gun, jail or no jail.

I turn the corner and catch a glimpse of my fellow roof-mate, lying on his side and twitching slightly. Oh hell, not good. Better than walking in on a corpse, but not by much.

"Donnie? Don? D-" And that's when a booted foot suddenly appeared in my peripheral vision. There was pain. And darkness. And, well, that was about it for me. Helluva way to start the day in Gotham City.

* * *

_And that's it! Hope you like it! As for my regular fics, I've finally overcome _most_ of the writer's block issues I've been having and so will update them soon. As always, feel free to use this in your own fanfics as you see fit. Just drop me a line so that I can be entertained by whatever your twisted little brains will conjure up in regards to this._


	12. The last lesson

**AN: I have no idea where this came from. I've obviously taken massive liberties with the material because, well, I am more familiar with straight Star Wars than I am with its prequels. Besides, it's meant more as a peek into the makings of Darth Vader rather than being a straight Ahsoka-centric piece. As always, I don't own any of this and the idea is free to a good home. **

Waking up after a crash is always hard. This one was simply harder than normal. For one, the pain was more intense than usual. Then there was the actual opening of the eyes, which held more surprises than usual as well.

Her body had been broken. There simply was no other word for it. She'd lost her right arm and left leg, shattered her spine, had most of her skin burned off and given herself a nasty concussion when her last combat drop had gone wrong. Master A'tuin was dead, crushed underneath the flight console and electrocuted when the ship's power failsafe failed. Of her contingent of troopers, a total of three out of an initial strikeforce of fifteen had survived, their armour providing enough protection against kinetic damage to walk away from the crash and carry her to safety. The others had been pasted across the inside of the craft as the turbolaser tore through the main cargo hold. She could still smell their charred remains. Seemed that the nursebots hadn't bothered to check her nose for remains.

She cleared her mind and dropped into her inner world, using the Force to divine where exactly she was. The number of minds she could feel going about their business told her that she was on a Republic battleship, one of the newer Star Destroyers if the distribution pattern of said minds was anything to go by. Anakin's training had been... odd, focusing more on the Force itself rather than its application to real-world problems. The time he'd spent with her had been well-spent no matter what A'tuin had to say about them. Sure, you couldn't immediately tell what his lessons had been or why they tended to be doled out on missions more often than not, but they always tended to be worth her time in the end.

Honestly, and she _did_ feel horrible even _thinking_ such thoughts, she was glad A'tuin had died. He'd been a doddering old fool that had almost gotten them all killed on more than one occasion. Case in point being the latest and last mission, in fact; Ahsoka had argued for a night-time deployment while A'tuin had been gunning for a surprise attack on the Separatists' main base. A'tuin had died, taking the last contingent of storm troopers that Anakin had entrusted her with him. She wondered how she'd tell him that _their_ Rex was dead. Rex... She hoped the Force took him somewhere better than this. Not that it'd be that hard. Anywhere was better than this galaxy.

Rex was gone. Anakin was faffing around the place. Most of her fellow Padawans were so much dust being scattered across the universe on the solar winds. She was alone. The Republic was winning the war, but the cost was immense to her and her fellow Jedi. Too high. She wondered who'd remember her if she left on a mission and never came back. Probably some dusty historian working on another biography of the Chosen One's early days. She meditated on that and found, to her surprise, that she didn't care.

The future? What future would there be for her after the war? She'd grown up in it, fought in it, all for that far-off time where peace would be restored. She'd yearned for peace before Anakin came along and dragged her across battlefields nobody remembered anymore. Now, she knew that, once peace came, she'd be done. What use was an adult Padawan with more missing bits than a batallion of Mandalorian mercs anyway? Who'd spent more time fighting for her life than she had studying the Jedi code? Who no longer really cared about enlightenment and solitary contemplation of the universe? Who preferred the company of the men she fought with over those of her betters? None. She'd be rendered useless the second the treaties were signed. Doubtless the council in Coruscant would ship her off to some far-flung compound to 'renew forgotten teachings'. Death would give her peace. War would give her a purpose. Peace would bring misery, full stop.

She shook herself of these thoughts. Such contemplation was a sure path to the dark side. It was an automatic rote recital at this point. She'd fought Dark Jedi and Sith far too many times to have anything but contempt for them and their kind. She'd sooner join a brothel on Tatooine than she would fall to the Dark Side. She skirted the edge at times, sure, but even if she gave herself over to hate, it'd be to defeat her enemies, not seek power like the Sith did. Power, after all, was nothing without control, a quality most of the Sith lacked completely. Anakin had told her that. And had then proceeded to drum control into Ahsoka the hard way by sending her on recon missions with Rex. Oh Rex...

She looked over her shoulder. The three troopers looked over at her in concern, clearly wondering what she was doing on her bed. She just smiled and waved off their concern. WIth Rex gone, she was in charge of his boys. Which made them her boys. She smiled for real this time, a stab of humour piercing through her brooding mind. She wondered what she'd look like in Storm Trooper armour. Maybe her brand new prosthetics and cybernetic implants would help her even in some way. Plus, with two of her braids replaced with gunmetal grey prosthetics, she could probably go the extra mile and ask for a more comprehensive cybernetic interface to go with the package.

The door opened, disgorging a Republic Navy puke with commander status and a gaggle of minions behind him. Ahsoka rolled her eyes and gave him the smile that she used when she was clearly not in the mood to smile. "What is it, commander?"

The man smiled at her in that way that marked him out as a toady rather than a competent officer. "Ah, finally awake are we?" Of course she was. He could clearly see and hear her. That'd be difficult to achieve in her sleep. "My name is Rousatio Ordin, captain of the Star Destroyer _Unbroken. _You've given us all a bit of a fright, I have to say."

Ahsoka frowned. "Have I now?" And why did it concern this guy?

"Indeed. Master Skywalker has been particularly concerned with the progress of your recovery."

Anakin had called? Why was he... Oh. "Commander Ordin, how long have I been asleep for?"

"Three months." He said, his smile turning sour as he spotted the three other occupants of the room. "And what are you three doing here again? I told you that this area is off limits!"

"Training accident sir."

"All three of you?" An unidentified hanger-on sneered at them. "No wonder the separatists are holding out if you can't even go through training without falling over themselves."

"Hey!" Ahsoka said. "These are my men you're talking about."

Ordin shot the minion a glare. "Please forgive ensign Duran. He can be tactless when surprised." He coughed. "Anyway, yes, it's been three months since we picked you up. Now that you're awake, there are several issues that need to be adressed. Here's your messages, an infopad about recent developments on the frontlines and sealed communiques from both Anakin Skywalker and the Jedi Order. And with that, I bid you good day, milady." He sighed. "Sadly, my post awaits."

* * *

Fan mail for Anakin's Sidekick, Bills a month or more late, get well messages from her few surviving fellow Padawans and a bunch of outdated news bulletins chronicling the happenings in the sector the _Unbroken_ was camping in. Nothing really of note in them either, which was odd. This Star Destroyer was a ship of the line. Last she'd heard, every ship of the line in service was currently either operating on the front lines themselves or being berthed for maintenance & repairs. By rights, this vessel should be operating in an area where the news bulletins would be covered with gory pictures and pleas for assistance in whatever refugee crisis the fighting was guaranteed to bring, be it evacuation or setting up & running camps. Hogging space in a backwater system far from established supply routes was the role of picketing vessels & the smaller cruisers in service, not that of a ship this powerful.

She smelled a rat. Time to find out just why she was this far out in space.

Jedi were paranoid. It came with the territory. Using the Force was not as easy or as safe as it was made out to be. You needed to be precise, careful and diligent. But that wasn't enough. If something went wrong, you needed a backup plan. Ahsoka had been taught all the dirty little tricks in that regard by the master of dirty little tricks. When encountering a Jedi, you tended to face the Force and a lightsaber. When encountering Anakin, you faced the Force, a lightsaber and a man who could hack into your AI-controlled spaceship and switch off every system at your command before he even bothered to engage.

Some called it cheating. Anakin just laughed at that and called it winning. Couple his ingenious use of electronics with the paranoia of a Jedi-raised Padawan and you got Ahsoka, a young woman that could hack Battle Droids in the middle of a fight. She had plans upon plans upon plans to deal with any sort of problem. She also had filched A'tuin's access codes that could be used to read & edit whatever orders were routed through the Navy's systems. A failsafe, the Jedi called it, in case things didn't add up. Ahsoka tended to call it her free ticket to the wonders of the greater galaxy. Hitch a ride on a Navy ship, re-route it a little bit and Bam! Pro-active hitch-hiking.

Today, though, things were different. She opened up the infopanel and quickly put in A'tuin's authorisation codes. A new window opened up, displaying a menu written in Corellian. Ahsoka mumbled the words to herself, never having had much use in learning anything but the most rudimentary Corellian. She could ask for the toilet with a high degree of certainty, but that was about it as far as speech went. Reading was easier for her, but she still needed to translate things slowly and carefully.

There, the 'orders log'. She tapped on the screen and a sprawling mess of data displayed itself. She frowned. These orders did emphatically not come from any Naval HQ she'd ever heard of. Though the list of names... Oh, that _bastard_. Of _course _he'd reroute a ship of the line for her. It's kind of sweet, but also infuriating in its own way. How in the hell had Ordin not noticed this? Wait, he was probably in on it too, enjoying his little paid vacation while men and women that weren't him died defending the republic. Once upon a time, she'd have punched him for that, but hey, why bother? The longer he stayed away from the line, the longer he'd have to prepare himself so that he could at least serve some use before throwing his life and the life of his crew away.

Anakin Skywalker, the bastard that cares. Ahsoka just shook her head and winced as she feld her prosthetic braid-hair brush against the patches of skin that hadn't completely healed yet. It was just so... _Anakin_. Help a friend and break about a thousand rules in the process? Sure, why not? Admit he was anything but a badass? Not a chance.

She closed the window down and turned her attention back towards the sealed stacks of plastic containing infopanels meant for her and her only. She shot an apologetic look at the three troopers who were watching her out of the corner of their eyes as she commanded the privacy screens to blank out. There, all done. Now for the _actual _mail.

She opened the first one and looked at the message that was scrawled on a piece of thermoplastic and frowned.

_Play me first._

_ -A_

* * *

The holo display on top of the infopanel shimmered and crackled. A blue image flickered into existence. It was Anakin. He looked the same, but... different. A little knot of dread formed in Ahsoka's stomach. This was not the man she'd met five months ago.

"Okay, Ahsoka. This is the last lesson I will be giving you. You know who I am. Or, at least, you think you do."

"You know Anakin Skywalker the Jedi. You know Anakin the friend. And yeah, that's me. But there are some things you don't know."

"Like the fact that I am married. To Padme. And that she's pregnant."

Oh boy.

" You know the codes, Ahsoka. Force knows I tried to teach you what little _I_ knew on the subject. You know the rules on personal attachments. I broke every rule in the book on that one. Even rule 37 sub-clause B if you'd believe it."

"But that's not really why I'm recording this message for you. Right now, you've been unconscious for a month and, when you wake up, the galaxy will be a very different place if I play my cards right."

"I never really took the time to tell you about my childhood on Tatooine. You know the official version and the few tidbits I threw your way so, unless someone told you or you figured it out for yourself, all you know that it was a bad one and that it was on Tatooine."

"The bit that they left out was that I was born a slave."

"When my mother gave birth to me, she was the property of a spare parts salesman there. I was going to grow up and earn me & my mother's freedom through about twenty years' worth of service. If I did well enough, I'd be offered a job doing the same things, but with better pay. I tried to speed it up by running in the pod races, but that was a bust."

"Oh, not because I didn't do a damn good job, but because I did too good a job in the end."

"I won my race and Master Qui Gonn Jinn won me as a result."

"I thought I'd lucked out at first. I mean, I was free and off-planet. Tatooine was one of the few places that still allowed slavery, so by my reckoning I was free and clear."

"But then I was inducted into the Jedi Order."

"You know, even then I didn't really understand what the Jedi were. It took a long time for me to figure it out, which is still pretty embarrassing to me. You see, I was a slave. I know what slavery is, how to spot it, what it feels like. As I grew up, I started to realise that, far from being the free man I thought I was, I had merely changed hands."

"The Jedi are slaves, Ahsoka. There is not a free man or woman walking the halls of the Jedi Temple. They cannot marry. They cannot have families. They cannot take vacations, find jobs or run businesses. They have no say in local politics outside of emergencies or negotiations. They. Are. Slaves."

"And the funny thing is, they don't even realise it! And they enslave themselves!" Anakin laughed bitterly. "I joined thinking that this would be my ticket to freedom only to find that I had done something incredibly stupid. I could have been a free man by now. Instead, I am just another chump doomed to die in chains."

"So I thought of a way to free myself and the others just like me."

" It was hard, you know. I spent years figuring it out. How could I convince others of this, open their eyes to the truth? What do I replace the Order with if I succeed and throw off the shackles? None of my ideas made it out of the planning stages."

"Then Padme came along and I started to think more drasticaly. What if there was a schism in the order? Would inducing competition make it better, forcing the factions to offer better conditions to those who joined them? That would only work if A, you managed to evade the Masters of the Order and/or B, you killed off the Masters of the Order. Still, it was a good idea if it could be made to work."

"Then you came along. So young and eager to prove yourself! Damn, you were young! Still are too! Make me feel old every time I see you. And yet I knew that, if you kept going and became a Jedi, there'd be no Mini-Ahsokas running around, no families, nothing but endless introspection and duty to the Order-if you survived."

"Seeing the vids of you in the bacta tank... was hard."

"Let me just state that none of this was your fault. I know, I asked the other survivors and the CO about it and they said that your plan would have worked. And none of what comes next is your fault either. All me, just so you know."

"So now we come to the past few months. Padme's pregnant and things are heating up. I killed Dooku, you know. And Windu too. Not my proudest moment, but anyway, enough about them. I'm getting premonitions in the Force, showing me Padme dying and a kid squealing its little heart out. There's a better than even chance neither will survive, but if the kid does, then chances are that he or she will be Force sensitive."

"I don't want my kids to be slaves. I was one, my mother was one and I don't know beyond that, but I will _not_ let my children grow up and become what I was. I'd rather kill them myself."

"So I made a bargain with Palpatine. Turns out that he is a Sith. He'll teach me how to ensure that Padme survives in exchange for me becoming his apprentice. I'm going to take that option. There's another reason for me to take up his offer; Freedom."

"I can't reason with the Jedi Order. Windu would have eaten me alive, Yoda would have backed him up and I would have been exiled to some podunk planet to live out my life. So I decided to destroy it instead."

"It was not an easy decision to make. I've pretty much signed myself up for another mass slaughter since any Jedi that remains of the old order is going to have to die. If I don't kill enough of them, then it will all have been for nothing since they'll just build the same Order with the same rules and the same ideals. I cannot have that. A new Order is required, one that gives its Jedi the freedom to do what they want to. Because what we have now is worse than death."

"But... I've asked for one, _one_ exception and that's you. You're young enough and savvy enough to start over. You have the training and the wits to use it to your advantage. And you have next to no hopes of living past the next few months even if my little scheme fails because you, Ahsoka, are not Jedi material at all. Say the Order remains and the war's over, what happens then? Do you know? Let me tell you; you get inducted as a full Jedi. If you're lucky, you get assigned to the diplomatic corps. If you're not, you get what amounts to a desk job. No lightsaber fighting, no adventure, you get a desk, a bunch of infopads and become a Master's glorified pet. You wouldn't last a week."

"And if you were to actually become a Jedi, I'd have to kill you because that's now my job."

"You get a free pass. Anything you want to do, anywhere you want to go. Settle down and have kids, become a bounty hunter, hell, even start a rebellion and fight me if you want! I mean, I'll still kill you but it's now your choice. You are a free woman, Ahsoka Tahno, free to make a new life for yourself."

"I suggest you do so. Live your life, Snips. You deserve it. Oh, and by the way? The ship you're on is yours to command too. Just... thought I should probably tell you that before I go. This is Anakin Skywalker, signing off."

**AN: Hope you enjoyed it. Tata!**


	13. The Branded One: Slaan's favoured, pt 1

HP/Berserk Part 2: To recap, Harry's the botched re-incarnation of Guts and Hermione's the re-incarnation of Casca. There's a catch, however; they don't know this. At least, not yet. And the longer they take to find out, the worse the situation gets. The insanity is just beginning.

The Branded One: Slaan's favoured part 1

He was cursed. He'd known it, instinctively, somehow, long before he'd been aware of anything else. His parents were dead at the hands of a Prophet, though whose was an open question at this stage. His life, what little of it there was, was a lonely one. And there were these, well, he couldn't call them memories because memories implied remembrance. Sensations, more like, things that made him feel angry, sad and alone for no obvious reason. The wing and sword emblem of the SAS, for example. Just why he felt so confused, happy, sad and furious beyond measure when he first saw it, he couldn't tell. And now there was the knowledge that the shade of the prophet that killed his parents was after him and he had no idea why. He could guess, but it just wasn't the same thing. He didn't even know what a prophet _was_, only that the thing he'd fought last year was one of them. How he even knew that there was more than one, well, he just _did_. He didn't know.

He was getting a few ideas, though.

Magic, wild, unpredictable magic. He had it. It felt stunted, somehow, like it was only a very short chapter in an epic tale. Things he thought were possible with it weren't even alluded to. There was no talk about things he thought _should_ be there, like spirits, staves, locations warped by magic's presence both good and bad. It was as if they simply didn't exist in his books. But what little there seemed to be came relatively easy to him, which was something of a blessing at least.

The scar he carried on the back of his neck. He'd never really seen it, but it had something to do with what was happening to him. Odd flashes of insight, enemy presence, danger-they all inflamed his scar. When he was in serious danger, it started bleeding. It had something to do with his curse. Maybe it had everything to do with his curse. He'd find out soon enough.

The sound of laughter echoed through the house. He looked up, irritated at the interruption of his studies, then went back to highlighting passages in _Pre-history of Magic-what we know, what we don't_. The book, dry and stale as it was, amused him greatly. He couldn't figure out why, though, or why he knew exactly what the author had gotten right and where they'd gone wrong. History was one of his favourite subjects. Even with the taste of ash, blood and mud the course tended to conjure in his mouth, the stories left him with a smile on his face Hermione described as wistful. He frowned as the braying of his relatives increased in volume. If this was how his uncle wooed customers, it was little wonder to Harry that the man hadn't gone further in life. Not that Harry cared. The lot of them could go hang for all the good that did them.

He kept on reading, tuning out the annoying buzz of his relatives' life with varying success. He had work to focus on if he intended to be done before bed. Tomorrow, after all, was the start of his training regime. Keeping fit was important.

* * *

Hermione frowned as she looked out of the window for the umpteenth time this summer. Harry's owl sat on a table in front of her, an injured wing bandaged tight to her side. Unlike other birds, Hedwig didn't move around much or try to mess with the bandages. It was like she understood the condition she was in. It was the damnedest thing. The vet she'd taken Hedwig to had been confused as to how a snowy Owl had made it all the way down from Scotland into the Greater London area. Hermione didn't have the heart to tell him that, in fact, the closest habitat a Snowy Owl would find comfortable enough to stay in was in Scandinavia. She didn't think it would have helped. Harry sure had lucked out in picking a familiar it seemed.

But now the question presented itself; what was she, Hermione, going to do about Harry's injured familiar? It seemed like an easy one, but it was anything but. For one, why had Hedwig come to her in the first place? Well, there was one way to find out...

* * *

Privet Drive was a normal suburb of mid-nineties southern England. In other words, the houses were clean, the gardens that were visible from the street varied from okay to gorgeous and the driveways had cars in them. The land surrounding the suburb was beautiful, really, typical of the north downs.

Everything else was filthy. The streets were haphazardly maintained, the industrial area was about as active as a sloth on benzodiapezines and what few public parks dotted the estate itself had what could be generously described as 'character', what with the concrete bunkers lined with graffiti and stains of a generally unidentifiable nature that dotted the 'natural' landscape. The council's maintenance budget had run out in early January, it seemed, and what little funding could be allocated to cleaning the area had gone towards helping fund the upcoming urban renewal projects.

And then there was the small forest at the edge of the suburb itself. Nestled between a major highway and the outer edge of the housing estate, there was a space about half a mile wide and three miles long that were dotted with large-ish trees, the forgotten remnants of the once mighty forest that had grown there. If you disregarded the noise, stink and discarded trash bags that littered the ground, you could imagine yourself back to the days when there had been nothing but forest and farmland in the area. Sadly, ignoring the signs of human occupation was kind of hard, especially when you had to pay attention not to step on any sharp syringes left over from the eighties' local heroin boom.

Harry Potter could, and did, ignore these things as he swung a heavy pole around in slow, circular motions. Normally this drill required swords and armour to be done correctly, but Harry had none of these. A heavy backpack, training weights and a wrought iron, five foot-long pole did much the same anyway. As for the lack of training dummies, well, he didn't really like trees that much anyway.

The pole crashed against the side of the tree with a hollow _bong, _spraying bits of bark and wood softened by pollution & disease everywhere. He went back into a defensive stance before swinging the pole over his head, using the momentum of the 'sword' to pirouette himself around and settling into the same defensive position as before almost instantly. He advanced, attacked another 'enemy', showering the ground with sick tree, settled back into position and swung the 'sword' in a downward arc, planting it firmly into the ground.

"Show yourself." The boy said in a cold voice, not turning to acknowledge whoever it might be. "I know you're there."

"Harry?" The bushy-haired brunette asked. "Is that you?"

"... Why are you here? What do you want, little witch?"

Hermione bristled slightly. "Your familiar-she came to me."

"Yes, I know. I wrote to you a week ago. Why not just send a letter back-or phone me for that matter?"

"She wasn't carrying a letter. She was hurt when I found her."

"Hurt-" He whirled around. "What do you mean, hurt?"

"Her wing was broken in several places. Looked like she'd been in a fight. And what are you wearing?" Hermione asked as she took in the heavy leather clothing Harry wore. And what where those metal bars lining his legs, arms and torso for?"

"Exercise clothes. How is she?"

"Alive, but hurting and cranky. She doesn't like buses, it seems." The bushy-haired witch stated as the owl perched on her shoulder struggled for balance.

"You came here by bus?" Harry asked, surprised. "From where?"

"Crawley. Took a while, but here I am!"

"Quite. Thank you for bringing her to me. I would have been unable to come & fetch her this summer."

"Why's that?"

Harry frowned. "Trouble at home. An elf of some kind broke into my house and assaulted my relatives. They were not happy."

"I... see. What species of elf was it?"

"House elf, it called itself. Looked like a brownie to me."

"And how do you know what a brownie looks like?"

"I read. Now come, let's have lunch."

He left. She followed. A few hundred metres further into the forest, in the middle of a small clearing, stood a tent and a fire pit with a blackened pot hanging over it. Harry put the pole down near the fireplace and went to stir the pot's contents around. Hermione was puzzled. "Harry, what's with all the camping gear?"

"As I said, my relatives were upset. Normally I'd only sped a few days training out here before going home, but the elf's actions forced my stay to be... prolonged."

"They kicked you out?" She asked in astonishment, Hedwig clawing into her shoulder as the girl started in bewildered anger. "They don't have the right!"

"I don't care. As I said, this was going to happen anyway. I'll just be staying a bit longer out here, is all. Besides, even a sick forest is an improvement on the house I live in."

"You don't care?"

"No. This is not their fault, nor is it mine. It simply happened. I have more important concerns than my thick-headed relatives anyway."

"Oh really? And what could possibly be more important than having a place to stay?"

"Homework. And this is a fairly nice tent, too."

Okay, she couldn't really say anything against that. "You could always stay at my place, you know, if you want." She doubted her parents would mind-or even notice anyway. They had a strange schedule for dentists. "I, uh, have a couch."

"And what would you ask for in return? I have no means by which to repay you until Hogwarts starts."

Kicked out with no money. Joy. Harry's relatives just kept getting better and better in her book. Vaguely put out, Hermione examined the immediate area and let her eyes fixate on the pole lying on the ground. "Well, how about you teach me how to fence?"

"Swordfighting." Harry said with a disapproving glare.

"Beg your pardon?"  
"It's swordfighting. Not fencing. I know how to handle a sword, not how to prance around with an overgrown toothpick."

"What's the difference?"

He shrugged. "I have always known how to fight with a sword. Rapiers are a different story."

"Okay then, teach me how to fight with a sword in exchange for staying at my place. Deal?"

"Deal."

The two shook hands. Hedwig screeched and gave her wizard the owl equivalent of a smirk. "Not a word out of you, featherball." Harry said, pointing at the owl. Sometimes, she seemed to be more than just an owl.

* * *

"Keep your guard up!"

"Like this?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Dunno, seemed natural."

* * *

"What's that Harry?"

"Exercise book on runes. If I start this off early, I should be able to skip ahead in class."

"Your conjugation is off. That cartouche should be smaller, for one."

"I know. I'm trying to find the right combination of symbols for a metals hardening set."

"Try using the _hal-frek_ glyphs instead of _az-reth_. That should help shorten the sequence some."

"Hmm, that works. Thank you."

"No problem."

"You done this before?"

"No. Why?"

* * *

Two weeks later, a pole whistled through the air before embedding itself in the soft grass. A girl stood over a boy dressed in black, a heavy-looking metal pole pointing at his windpipe. The boy smirked. "Well done Hermione."

"Please, you were holding back."

"Right. Because I am known for just that trait." He snarked. "You beat me, fair and square. Admit it."

"Uh-"

"This training session is at an end. We will continue our training in Hogwarts."

"Okay. Why Hogwarts?"

"Because it's time for you to choose your sword. "

* * *

Harry stared at the portal he'd taken the previous year in surprise. He'd seen the others go through, so why hadn't he been able to? He shrugged. That was a question for another day. He looked at Hedwig and sighed. Running into the wall had probably injured her as well. He started the long walk down to the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

The new defence professor was as much of an ass as a professor as he'd been when spruiking his book in the alley. His outfit was as bright, colourful and tasteless as any Harry'd ever seen. The shoulder guards he wore looked like inflated balloons. His boots were too shiny and well-tailored for serious footwear. And the bastard _never stopped talking_! It probably didn't help things when he noticed the wide-eyed look of awe amongst his peers and the way some of the older girls looked at him. He liked it even less when he noticed the defence professor _reciprocating_. Something about the pompous ass set his teeth on edge.

Hermione noticed the way Harry looked at the defence professor. He wasn't really the kind of boy to display emotions, which suited Hermione just fine. She had a hair-trigger temper herself and knew how to spot the stony look that spoke of iron self-control in others. Harry had mastered that look, apparently.

But the flat stare he was giving Lockhart-she shivered. She knew that look. Something buried deep within her saw that look and quailed too. She didn't know what it was that made her react to Harry the way she did. It'd bugged her all summer. Sometimes, she didn't see a boy standing where Harry was. She saw an older man, clad in the same kind of clothes, with one eye missing and an arm wrought of iron, looking back at her in despair. She feared that man even as her heart was set on fire every time she caught a glimpse of him. It was, needless to say, confusing and very hard to work past. Harry had all his limbs. Harry had all his eyes. Harry wore glasses. So what if the clothes were the same? So what if the scar he carried on his neck looked awfully familiar? None of that mattered. That was her mantra when dealing with Harry. Harry was Harry. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But she knew Harry some and had come to recognise his moods, hard to fathom as they were. And when Harry stared at Lockhart, it wasn't in the same way he stared at the others that annoyed him. He was sizing the man up. It was starting to scare her.

* * *

"Ah, Harry!" The pompous twit called out. "Just the boy I need! Come down here please." Harry started standing up-and stumbled as he felt Hermione latch onto him.

"Don't kill him." She whispered. "You'd get detention if you did."

Harry smirked and gently brushed her hand off. He wouldn't kill the twit, no. It wouldn't be a fair fight if he did. He went down to the front of the classroom.

"Right, now stand over there please! Right, good lad. Have you read my book, Harry?"

"Which one sir?"

"Why, wanderings with werewolves, of course!"

"The one with the Australian Lycanthrope sir?"

"Tut-tut boy! I'll have you know that Wagga Wagga is an American State!"

Harry grinned. What a buffoon. "Then no sir, I haven't gotten around to it yet."

Lockhart's face fell. "Oh. Oh well, there's a scene in there where I confront the wolf in the forests and manage to subdue him. He escapes afterwards, of course, but it was the thought that counted." He said, preening his hair for a non-existent audience. Well, Harry would've liked it to be non-existent, but some of the looks the dumber girls were giving their professor told him otherwise.

"And?"

"And you get to play the werewolf, my boy! You can use your wand if you want to, but this is just a mock battle, so no hard spells, alright?"

"Werewolf."

"Yes."

"Me."

"Yes."

Harry looked at the students around him. Neville was sitting in his seat, stiff as a board as he saw the look Harry had in his eyes. The last time he'd seen _that_ look, he'd been on the verge of becoming fertiliser courtesy of one angry troll last year. Ron looked interested, but bored and frustrated at his peers' hero worship of a man that dressed girlier than Madame Puddifoot. Hermione was shaking her head at him, mouthing no and frantically waving her arms around in negative gestures. Clearly, she knew what was coming. Malfoy was watching like a... hawk.

Harry turned back to the defence professor, slowly taking off his school robes and revealing the armour he had on underneath. "Okay. Let's do this." He growled out.

The next five minutes were very educational to those watching.

* * *

"He tossed him out of the class?" Snape asked, his eyes glinting in dark amusement.

"Yes. Through a window, apparently." The elderly figure confirmed as he slurped his morning tea.

"How sad. To lose to a twelve-year-old, what a humiliating experience this must be for poor Gilderoy."

"It is of little consequence. Poppy assures me that the damage will be fixed come morning. And Harry has been assigned detention already, so there is little that Lockhart can do as a result bar challenging the boy to a duel." Dumbledore said pensively. "As for the humbling experience, it seems that Gilderoy is more skilled at taking on enemies with a more supernatural bent, so underestimating the Potter child would have been easy." He slurped his tea. "I daresay that that is not a mistake Lockhart's likely to make again."

"Indeed. Now, there is something big that Lucius has planned for this year. From what Draco says, at least."

"Any ideas as to what it may be?"

"No, merely that it involved a book of some description."

The asides dealt with, both head of Slytherin and the headmaster got down to business under the watchful eyes of the portraits. The phoenix coughed up a plume of ash in the background. Burning day was fast approaching.

* * *

Halloween was upon him when his scar started itching. It was a slight itch, more annoying than anything else, but the implications were pretty clear.

Something was close. Emphasis on _thing_. And whatever it was was Dangerous. Oh, and Hermione was giving him a strange look, no doubt remembering the troll from last year. The centaurs were jittery too, confused and distracted during their fights. Neville was beating Ron at a game called 'magic ship fighters-battle edition', quite soundly too, before the whole troop made its way down to the feast. The ghosts had tried pulling them aside for their 'death day' bash, but he really didn't need to hang around with dead people. His dreams were more than enough for doing that, thanks.

Hermione had finally found her swords-one of them was a longsword she'd borrowed from one of the animated suits of armour while another was a straight cavalry sword. She trained in the longsword with him and won & lost their fights in equal measure, the mass and range of his claymore helping to negate her advantage in agility. They'd tried training with the cavalry sword, but she was simply too quick with the damn thing! In the time it took him to swing the blade of the claymore, she'd break through his guard, kick him in the nuts and put her blade on the back of his neck. He could match her in speed if he took his weights off, but preferred not to. Better to keep improving with his blade first before trying to fight Hermione on equal terms. But that would change someday.

Ron had taken one look at their little spar and gone white as a sheet. He preferred to fight with his broken wand. Harry'd just shrugged and told him to get better at it-quickly.

The great hall was well-decorated. It looked a lot like the feasts his old school used to put on, just more, well, magical. Not really as scary as all that, though. They should work on that.

The itching got worse as the feast progressed. He wasn't the only one with itching problems either. Hermione absently rubbed a sore spot on her upper torso too, frowning as she tried to figure out what was going on. Finally, a stab of pain lanced through his scar and the warm trickle of blood went down the back of his neck. He hissed and sprang up like a startled cat, the blood sent flying over his neighboring revellers as he drew his throwing daggers, spun around and ran for the exit. He hit the doors at full speed, lost in fury as the stabbing pain got worse the closer he got to whatever it was he was going to kill for interrupting his downtime.

Finally, he let out a roar of triumph as he felt the pain start to flare again, indicating that whatever it was was just around the corner. He jumped out into the corridor, daggers flashing in the torchlight, coming face to face with... a cat made of stone.

He snarled in frustration. He was too late.

* * *

"Could it be a gorgon?" Hermione asked.

"There's never been a Gorgon on British soil, Granger." Ron said. "And Saint Patrick killed the one in Ireland a long time ago, so probably no."

"What about the giant spiders? Could they be responsible?" Neville asked.

"S-s-spiders?" Ron squeaked. "Where?"

"About a mile into the forbidden forest." Harry said. "There's a huge nest of them there. Always up for a fight too. But no, they didn't do it."

"How do you know, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Trust me, if they could turn anything into stone, then they'd have done it to me last year."

"Maybe it just affects small animals then." Ron said, thinking about it. "And how did you find out about them, Harry?"

"They ambushed me. I killed them and burned one of the smaller nests in the process. End of story." Harry said in a subdued tone.

"Well, looks like I am going to have to look this up." Hermione said as she shouldered her backpack. "Coming boys?"

Harry, Neville and Ron filed after her. They knew that tone of voice. She hadn't been asking.

* * *

"A duelling club?" Harry asked, clearly intrigued by the announcement. He grinned a very evil-looking grin. "I always like a challenge."

* * *

The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed through the room as the bell tolled. Two figures, one wearing heavy armour made of black metal and another clad in cavalry armour faced each other with sharp swords in one hand and a small shield in the other. The one clad in lighter armour shifted their stance slightly, the sword wavering back into guard position. The black armoured one shifted their stance to point the heavy claymore down and back, showing his shoulder armour and shield arm to the opponent. The two opponents sized each other up, metal joints creaking as minute adjustments in stance were made.

Finally, the black-armoured swordsman lifted his massive blade and darted forward. The other shifted her position and brought the shield up to intercept the blow. The claymore struck, ringing the opponent's shield like a gong. Hermione took the opening offered and lunged with the longsword, edge darting out as quick as a snake. Harry batted her blade off-course with the edge of his shield as he swept his broadsword up and to the side. Hermione jumped over the sweep-and crumpled as she caught Harry's armoured foot in the gut. She landed with a _clank _and rolled backwards, bringing her longsword back up and using the flat of the blade to deflect Harry's follow-up strike. Harry, brought suddenly off-balance at the unexpected manoeuvre, couldn't avoid Hermione's shield striking off his helmet. The two opponents disengaged.

"What's up? Getting tired already?" Hermione asked as she shook some life back into her gauntleted fist.

"Not really. Just surprised." He said, eyeing her. "Your style seems to be becoming more and more familiar to me, so that last manoeuvre was unexpected. You sure you haven't done this before?"

"Yes. I am quite sure I would have noticed if I'd undergone sword training before, you know."

Harry shrugged. "You're pretty good at it."

"What can I say? You're a good teacher."

Harry just grunted. He didn't bother mentioning the fact that he hadn't taught her that move with the shield. She knew that. "Let's get this over with."

"Alright." She shifted into a strange stance, sword held out in front with shield arm edging parallel to the blade. "Let's dance."

Harry jumped to the side, anchored himself into a firm stance and swung his blade overhead and into his opponent's side guard. Hermione ducked under the blade and hit it with the shield in passing, bringing her longsword into a straight lunge as the claymore kept going. Harry cursed, side-stepped the swipe and turned the twirling manoeuvre into a haymaker. Hermione cried out as she caught the armoured foot in the shoulder, toppling her over and making her release her sword. She cursed, rolled towards Harry and yanked his foot out from underneath him. He fell forward, putting all his weight onto the tip of the claymore as it hit the ground. The tip flared as the repair runes activated, but while the blade repaired itself, Harry, still falling forward, lost his grip on the large weapon and bellyflopped to the ground in a muffled _bong_. He kicked out instinctively, driving Hermione's lunge away from her sword and back onto the group, brought himself to a crouching position and _launched_ himself at his still-recovering opponent.

Hermione saw the black-clad missile heading her way and kicked out, spur heel first. Harry stifled a curse as he felt the star spur dig into his cheek and batted it away before lashing out with his shield, knocking her helmet off in an ironic twist. Hermione snarled, lashing out with her own gauntleted fist and hitting him in the armpit. Harry gasped and staggered back, clutching the pit of his arm as grooves torn open by the gauntlet's rivets started to bleed. He growled and hit Hermione full in the face, driving her back to the ground. She kicked him in the balls and brought her other leg up to kick him in the head as he went down, only to send him sprawling as the kick connected with his breastplate instead.

The two combatants scowled at each other and grabbed the swords closest to them. Hermione, anticipating her longsword's weight, stumbled as she felt the massive weight of Harry's broadsword in her hand. Harry almost tipped over backwards after yanking the longsword off the ground, the lighter weight making him feel awkward and unsteady on his feet. Both looked down at their respective swords, looked up into their opponent's bruised faces, nodded and tossed the other's sword across the room. Respective swords back in hand, They circled each other, unbending stares fighting a battle of wills across the distance separating them. Harry was bleeding from a jagged tear in his cheek and a few other bruises inching up & down the hairline. Hermione's left eye was blackening, the outline of the bruise delineated by where the edge of Harry's gauntleted fist had torn open skin that was now bleeding freely down past her bleeding nose. Neither gave and inch.

Suddenly, Hermione darted forward and _lunged_. Harry, caught by surprise, jumped to the side and back- straight off the duelling platform. The loud _clang_ of his armour hitting the stone flags was drowned out by Hermione's whoop of triumph.

"Haha! I win! Na, na, nana, na! You. Can't. Beat. Me!"

Harry just grinned at her in exasperated elation. "Ha! Next time, let's duel on a proper floor, shall we? Platforms just aren't the same."

"Right! And then I'll still kick your ass! And what'll be your excuse then, huh?" She asked, shucking off her dented breastplate and gingerly touching the bruise on her face. "Well that was exciting. Same time tomorrow, then?"

"Yep. Hey, when's duelling class supposed to start, by the way?" Harry asked casually.

Hermione frowned before casting _tempus _with her wand. She gasped. "Harry, we've got to hurry! We're fifteen minutes late!"

"Actually," Harry said, drawing Hermione's attention to the mass of students gawping at the armoured pair in fear & awe. "I don't think that's going to be a problem."

"Oh."

* * *

"_Serpensortia!"_

Harry hesitated before bringing his dagger up. "Little snake, do you remember me?" He asked as the duelling chamber went nuts at the sight of the anaconda on the floor.

"Amigo! It's been a while, eh?"

"Indeed. Tell me, do you know why you're here?"

"Well, no. I was lounging on that hot stone and checking out the chicas when there was a woosh and here I was. Nice clothes, by the way."

"Do you want to be sent back amigo?"

"Oh yeah! The chica in the box next to mine is shedding. I love myself a striptease."

"Alright." He said, grabbing his wand. "Hope this works. _Finite_."

"See ya amigo! 'Til next time!" the anaconda said before disappearing in a flash of white and a _bang_.

Harry looked at Malfoy's paling expression of panic. "That snake is a good friend of mine. What business did you have bringing him into this fight?" He asked, unsheathing the claymore he'd been using earlier while glaring at the blonde ass-hole. "You'll pay for that." He hissed before lunging.

Malfoy jumped off the stage just as the blade flashed roughly where his wand arm had been a second ago before whirling around and sending a silent spell Harry's way. He batted the spell away with his shield arm before chucking a dagger at the blonde aristocrat. The blade hit the hem of Malfoy's robes, pinning them to the ground just as the spell hit the ceiling with a _crack_. Harry brought up his wand, an angry rictus appearing on his face as he thought about what nasty curse to hit the little fucker with.

"ENOUGH!" Hermione bellowed, pushing through the shocked students. "Harry, you've won the round, stand down! And Malfoy, you fucking coward! That magic was borderline at best. You saw what Harry did to Lockhart?" Draco nodded. "Do you want him to do that to you?" Draco shook his head. "Then apologise! Now!"

Draco looked at Harry in fear before bowing. The black armour. The swords. The hatred. The ability to speak to snakes. There was only one person that fit those criteria, to Draco's knowledge. "I apologise... Lord Slytherin."

And that's when the shouting started.

* * *

**A/N**:That one's been bugging my hindbrain for a while now. Felt good to get it off my chest. It'll probably not be a full-on fic ever (unless one of you guys n' gals n' everything in-between wants to. Feel free to, btw), but putting the bits together will definitely be amusing. For one thing, it's fairly standard trope-ridden H/Hr shipping, though with the twist that A) while they do share a soul bond, soul bonds are _**Bad**. _and B) the likelihood of a happy ending? Bwahahahaha! Fuck no, this is a Berserk crossover damnit! The only happy ending is the one where _everybody dies. _Because the alternatives are worse. Yeah.

Also, any Potter kids that would survive those two bumping uglies and spawning would not necessarily survive the fact that the curse brand, thanks to the re-incarnation thing going trippy, becomes _hereditary_. As in, their kids are branded from day one and become demon magnets. Because hey, that's pretty much how I picture things going down in the Potterverse with horcruxes; Harry may have lost that whole snake-talk thing, but maybe his kids didn't. Would make sense if you credit the whole hereditary magic thing, 'coz if wands switch allegiance to the wizard that nuked their old master, why not line magic? Yeah, it's a pretty stupid idea, but it's what I think could happen, so whatevs. It's not like the whole magic thing is defined in that 'verse anyway, so it _could_ which, given the whole magic and low-probability hero spiel, it does. Eventually.

Oh, and Part 2 of this? maybe later. Beware, though; if it does happen, the Basilisk will be a bit more of a cosmic horror than what you'd remember from canon.


	14. Timey-wimey bouts of crazy

TARDISes do not reproduce sexually. Rather, they 'tweak' the time stream to allow for the emergence of new ones. With the extinction of the Time Lords, the TARDISes had to find a new way for them to be born, one that did not necessarily depend on manufacturing. Enter mankind.

Humanity's timeline is about as straightforward as a plate of spaghetti. From the time of their emergence as a new species to the time when the very last of them draws breath, humanity has, does and will foster an obsession with time that has no equal in the known universe. They're a species whose whole existence seemingly revolves around their relationship with time-keeping it, interpreting it, manipulating it.

It is fair to say that you could use time as a proxy for gauging how developed a human civilisation is; the more accurate and obsessive their time-keeping, the more developed a civilisation full of humans tends to be. If you want an idea of just how obsessed they are, consider that, while other species are wholly content with limited concepts such as 'dawn', 'dusk', 'seasons' and 'patience', humanity invented 'days', 'hours', 'minutes', 'seconds', 'boredom', 'wasting time', 'past', 'present', 'future' – and use them every day. They're one of the few species to have invented the calendar before they even came up with the idea for toilet paper-or even the toilet, in some cases. Or stone housing, for that matter.

This makes them an ideal breeding ground for horny TARDISes – a deep, abiding obsession with time and a talent for successfully re-shaping their environment to suit their needs means that there is very little in the way of work for a TARDIS to do if it wants to breed. In fact, given enough time (heh), humanity would develop something much like a TARDIS anyway except that A) it wouldn't be alive and B) the earliest they could come up with it is only after they've finally started colonising other planets. Humanity's descendents will be able to build one in the far, far future. Humanity itself? No. Not without 'help'.

This is the story of how, in one universe, a TARDIS came to be. A world of magic, time travel and an unknown power proving to be the key to a prophecy. And how someone stole it.

Because, when TARDISes exist, time lords are not _that_ far behind. Or ahead. Or in-between. It gets confusing after a while.

* * *

There were once three brothers. Ang, Ar and Uk. They lived together with their families in a small valley in the dry season. During the wet seasons, they hunted. During the cold seasons, they followed the exodus of beasts and preyed on the vulnerable, the elderly and the infirm. They slept in caves, forest glades and tents made out of the dried skin of the animals they hunted. The women made spears, looked after the children and put the pieces of dried skin together to make clothes, shelter and pouches to carry food & water. It was a peaceful & boring existence for the three brothers.

One day, Ang came back to camp bearing three bangles. He gave one to Ar and one to Uk. Ang got the gift of sight – he could see prey wherever it was. Ar got the gift of hearing – he could hear the flap of wings on the breeze, the sound of grass growing underneath snow and the sound of children growing inside the women. Uk got the gift of smell – his nose could find any trail, no matter how old, and follow it better than even the wolves could.

Ang, Ar & Uk died five years later, old men at the age of thirty. Their youngest children could do just as they could, as could their children and their children's children. The bangles were lost. The seeds of change were sown.

* * *

Arun was a lonely lad and far ahead of his time. Being a teenager long before the term was invented was a hard thing to be. One day while out getting water, Arun noticed a strange woman lying on the other side of the bank. Arun went to ask her what was wrong when he gasped. The woman's feet were no feet at all! They were like the tail of fish his tribe hunted in the waters! Arun had found a water spirit. Arun became his tribe's first shaman. He wouldn't be the last.

* * *

One day, an apprentice priestess of the Sun God Ash-tun was sacrificing a goat on the old wooden altar, much like her mother and grand-mother had done in ages past. It was a pesky thing, stubbornly refusing to enter communion with the god that gave it life by running rings around the poor girl. Priestesses had no real name apart from Priestess, so the girl had grown up with none. To receive a name of your own whilst in the service of Ash-tun was blasphemy, an insult to the power Ash-tun had deemed fit to bestow upon his earth-born avatars. This particular favoured of Ash-tun was running out of patience. Finally, with an angry shout, she screamed at the goat to stand still and die already.

The goat did. It stopped, looked at her with an unreadable glare and keeled over dead.

The apprenticeship was over. She had become a full Blessed of the temple in one shout. And that was that.

* * *

There were tales of a man that could see the future. Many dismissed such claims as pure superstition, with the loudest clamour that such claims were nonsense coming from the priests. However, the local king was intrigued and asked his retainer to seek out this man and bring him back to court. The retainer, sensing an opportunity, obliged. He spent a year seeking out this man, venturing farther and farther from the palace as he followed the trail of rumours. A weathered crone claimed that he had warned her not to seek out the lost calf lest she be caught in a rainstorm. He'd been right. A local maid in a village a few weeks' walk away from the city said that he'd turned up at her doorstep one night and asked for help delivering a baby. Three days later, the two had arrived at the door of a lonely young girl-who'd gone into labour just as the man walked through the door. The farmers said that the man had told them which crops to grow and where to grow them for the best results. They had never seen such a bountiful harvest before. A priest reluctantly agreed that it had been this man that had told him where to find the culprit for the theft of a temple artifact. The man had then warned the town guard not to go after the artifact themselves. They'd ignored him. They'd never come back.

Finally, the retainer tracked the man down. He was fully equipped for travel and told him that they should make swiftly for the palace as soon as possible lest they be caught in the storm. The retainer, impressed at the man's deduction skills, agreed. They arrived, a month later, just as the storm broke.

The king met the man. The man told the king to beware the summer months, for these would bring much suffering lest the king step down and allow his daughter to take the throne. The king threw the man in prison. Summer came. A horde of bandits came with it. The king fell in battle. The daughter took the throne and, with the help of the retainer, stopped the bandits at the city gates. The man was released from prison. The man married the now-queen. The retainer was named protector of the city, much to his pleasure.

* * *

A thousand little stories, a thousand different events. All small enough and inconsequential enough that none would truly piece together what was happening. Talents, such as foresight, insight, the ability to impose one's will on reality all emerged over thousands of years, the talents passed down from generation to generation. Individually, they had little impact. Stealing a glimpse of a possible future, seeing creatures nobody else could, having more than their fair share of luck was an oddity that had little real impact on the larger world. But, over time, they started to merge together, traits and talents long forgotten in the annals of unwritten history coming to the fore as the unwitting bearers of such talents mated with one another. Until one day...

The boy was... odd. Not that the Romans cared about odd little slaves. You didn't really expect people subjugated to the will of their enemies to have much in the way of sanity to go around, after all. But the boy's mother did. They were only a few years from acquiring their citizenship and being allowed to work for money as free agents, so anything that could jeopardise their chances was a big no-no. But the boy was, well, odd. He saw things nobody else did. He knew things he'd never learned in the first place, such as Gallic and Pictish. He knew when things would happen. And she was pretty sure that the boy's hair had been a lot shorter the other day.

Truly, his mother thought, Merlin was a strange little boy.

* * *

Four friends stood on the edge of a valley, looking down at the sweeping plain of grass stretching before them.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" A man dressed in green robes asked the other three.

"Of course! You know that this is the way things must be done." The woman dressed in yellow said. "We're not alone anymore Salazar-there are more of us now than there are druids. They have their hidden temples to help instruct children. We don't. We need _something_."

"Indeed." The woman dressed in blue robes chipped in. "This is the logical choice to make."

"Besides, I'm sick and tired of trudging around the countryside like a vagrant." The man dressed in red armour said. "_We_ shouldn't have to go to them. _They _should come to us."

The green-robed man sighed. "Alright." He said. "But I still think this is a bad idea. I mean, _Hogwarts_! Surely there's a better name for a magic school."

"No." The yellow-robed woman said. "This is the best of all possible names. Better than any other warts-related naming scheme you came up with, after all."

"But Rowena, _why warts_?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"... One day, I'm going to go Dark and kill you all, you know that right?"

"Aw, Salazar, we love you too."

* * *

There were once three brothers, Ignotus, Antiochus and Cadmus. They led reasonable lives for wizards born into their times, dividing their efforts between fighting, researching and more fighting. They each had a wife they doted upon and children they tolerated. Theirs was, for the times, a fairly boring existence.

That is, until they encountered a shadowy figure by the side of a river.

Then their lives got complicated, though not for long.

* * *

Tharmon of Aiden had a familiar. The familiar died. Tharmon revived his familiar using Magic. The familiar vanished in a burst of fire. Tharmon created the first Phoenix. The first Phoenix went back in time and created other Phoenixes. And Tharmon never found out. Tharmon went on to create the first time turner. Nobody ever saw Tharmon again. Or the city-state of Aiden either, for that matter.

* * *

Magic is the very embodiment of change. Change is, loosely defined, a function of events over time. This is not really true, but it serves its purpose. Instructional lies are underestimated in today's world. Therefore, magic can be said to be the physical manifestation of a function of events over time. Magic does not exist in and of itself. You need to change _something_ to allow magic to exist. So what do you change to allow magic to exist? Will it be the events, the sum-total of all physical activity in the universe, or time? If you made it so that time, when considered from a magical perspective, was functionally infinite, what would happen? Easy.

Given time, all probabilities end up equalling one. What this means is that, if there is even the slimmest chances of something happening, _no matter how slim they are,_ then given enough time they could happen. So, if you made it so that magic did not need to consider time as a factor because the normal rules regarding time do not apply to it, then that makes any even wildly unlikely changes like, say, a stone spontaneously transforming into a duck, possible using it.

This is exactly what happened to magic – over time, the limits imposed upon what was possible using magic eroded as the barriers imposed by the probability of something happening were shrunk through an infusion of time. This is not what really happened, but unless you have a way of actually understanding the maths behind the physics in spaces of more than 4 dimensions, you get the instructional lie and like it. As time went on and humanity prospered, human magic went from what was possible given constraints in the environment to what their imaginations could conjure up.

And as magic changed, so did its practitioners. Magic was the barrier that enabled mages to manipulate time and the environment that, sooner or later, could and would be influenced by it. From a mote of dust dancing on a sunbeam to the largest galactic cluster in the 3-d universe, nothing was immune to time. As magic moved closer and closer to the time stream proper, the powers of those practicing magic got greater and greater.

Until one day...

* * *

Hermione Jane Granger died when a flame cutter curse tore through her body. But this was a world of magic, and nothing was that easy.

She lay there on the flagstones of the Department of Mysteries' time room, gazing up at the dark ceiling as her blood pooled all around her. There were people around her, trying to heal her, but she could tell it was too late. So could they. She didn't want to go.

Her heart was slowing. Her lungs were ragged chunks of meaty shrapnel. Her stomach was torn in half. Her liver had burst in a dozen places. The slow burn of the curse working its way through her other internal organs made her think of the pyres the inquisition used to burn witches like her hundreds of years ago.

_I don't want to go._

Her friends were screaming her name between spellcasts. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

_I don't want to die._

The deactivated time turner she'd kept as a memento of adventures gone by was torn open, its golden sands spilling into the open wounds across her body.

_I-_

The sands of time erupted in a brilliant flash of light. Today was the day Hermione Jane Granger died. It should be noted that she didn't stay dead.

* * *

The hulking form of the hourglass loomed above the Time Room. Spellfire rushed across the chamber, the crackle of superheated air and blinding lights confusing the battlefield even more. Just two doors beyond this room and the three children would be free. But there were Death Eaters to contend with first. Five of them. Against three teenagers, two of whom where in really bad nick. Harry did not like those odds.

"Luna! Get Ron to safety!" He screamed as he batted a _crucio _out of the way with the tip of his wand. "I'll hold 'em off."

The blonde girl ignored him, sending a ribbon cutter curse at the two Death Eaters she was duelling. Twin cries of _protego _filled the room as the ribbon crashed against greyish-blue shields. Luna followed it with a _reducto_ to the shelf behind the two, engulfing them in white flames. And then there were three.

"Nevermind." Harry said, summoning a support beam from the ceiling. Masonry crashed to the ground in front of him, creating a barrier between the beleaguered trio and their attackers- and blocking the desired exit. "New plan guys. Luna, take Ron and head for the Planetarium. There should be an exit back to the Atrium from there."

"And you Harry? What will you do?"

"Keep going. Lucius and Bellatrix are up ahead. As long as they focus on me, that gives all of us a chance to get out of here."

"Gwush Harry!" Ron said in a Brain-induced daze. "You're starting to look nice and boxy. All big, blurry and timey-wimey."

"Right. Did you get that Luna?"

"Yes Harry. Ron thinks you're a box. "

"He's bigger on the inside!"

"Thanks Ron. And that's not what I meant. Do you understand what I told you Luna?"

"Yes!"

"So what are you standing there for? Get yourself and Ron to safety."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I don't want to miss this for the world."

"Uh-" Harry sighed. He liked Luna, really he did, but there was a grain of truth to Ravenclaw calling her a nutcase. They may have been a bunch of bullies, but they were an insightful bunch of bullies. "Right. In that case, follow me."

"Okay!" She agreed cheerfully.

They'd barely gotten up when a _reducto_ headed their way. Harry deflected it by instinct. Right into the massive hourglass.

* * *

"What do you mean, Potter's missing?" Voldemort asked with a frown.

"Well, me, Flint and Bole 'ad 'im cornered, melord, bang to rights 'e was! Then, Flint threw a _reducto _at 'em and the boy deflected it off inna the 'ourglass, yaknow. Anyway, 'e got buried in der sandy stuff 'n the two others legged it while we was distracted, on account of all der glowy sand stuff 'n us trynna dig 'im out 'n get 'im ta you melord, but then der brat wuz gone!"

"So, let's take a few seconds to decipher that statement; you and your two companions were duelling Potter and his ilk."

"Yes melord."

"Then, a spell hits the giant hourglass in the Time Chamber, which explodes."

"Yes melord."

"Potter gets buried under the sand and his friends run for it while you three comb through the place looking for him."

"Yes melord."

"And the sand was glowing."

"Not alluvit melord, jus' a few areas is all."

"What was the colour of the glow, Thorfinn?" Voldemort asked intently.

"Golden, melord."

"And the prophecy?"

"Dunno, melord. None of 'em 'ad an Orb 'anging around as far as I know."

"I see._Crucio_. Head back to base, Rowle. I have a few questions that need answered when we have time."

* * *

The first clue that something had gone wrong was when she woke up. It was kind of a big clue, because she was dead. She remembered dying. It's the kind of experience that stuck with you. You only got to experience it once, normally. But here she was. In the Hogwarts infirmary. Clue number two. Waking up in the infirmary had many not-nice implications. Coupled with her memories of dying, the implications somehow managed to get worse. If all had gone well and she hadn't died as she thought she'd had, then she should, by rights, be waking up in the DOM. But no, she was in Hogwarts. In daytime. Weird. It'd been night-time when she'd died. And why was she so sure she was dead?

She did an inventory of herself. Let's see, toes still there, legs-ooh, nice, stomach-firmer than she remembered, weird. Tits-_bigger_, but probably just a growth spurt, hands normal, ears where she'd left them, nose still attached, but pointier? Huh. Anyway, hair, still frizzy but darker than usual, possible side-effect of healing potion, no big deal. There, all accounted for!

Wait. She didn't remember being this tall. She got out of bed.

Wow! She was tall. Like, _really_ tall! A good foot higher than when she'd been killed, she'd say. And oh, the _size_ of her feet! Dear Lord, how was she supposed to fit in her shoes with these cargo haulers? And those shoulders! Proper shoulders, they were. Nothing like those dainty things she was used to. Heh. Was this a side-effect of the potions? Polyjuice? She'd better find Pomphrey. But first, clothes. And some food. She liked food.

She didn't bother looking for her own clothes. They wouldn't fit her right now. She headed for the nurse's office instead, knowing that Poppy kept a huge stash of clothes & shoes handy for when a student needed to borrow them. Hermione would need them. And some boots, too, if she found them. Shoes were just ugh right now. She'd spent her entire life in shoes. Boots sounded like a great idea right now.

Lessee, robes, no thank you! Couldn't stand the things anyway. Ooh, white t-shirt with long sleeves, _like that_! Jeans, trousers, nah-_leather pants_! Oh yes! And they were brown too, which meant not looking like a retired dominatrix. Nice. That's a nice-looking bra. Comfy too. On the pile. Knee length woolly socks? Well, this is a castle in Scotland. Can't go wrong with covering up. Cardigan! Done in the Abercrombie's tartan pattern! Score! Hmm, to take black leather jacket or not to take? Easy. On the pile. Cool. Riding boots that fit. _So_ taking those.

She dressed quickly, jotted down a note detailing to poppy what she'd taken and promising that she'd return the items as soon as she'd gone shopping. She then absent-mindedly pocketed her wand. Why wasn't it on her bedside table? That was where she normally found it. Oh, well, she was going to find out sooner or later.

Now, food. Questions later.

* * *

The Great Hall! She loved the great hall. Lots and lots of people who weren't particularly nice, but _interesting_ nonetheless. Magic everywhere. Food. Fun all around. Hmm, looked like people were having lunch. Not a lot of noise either. Strange. Still, food! Need food. Food's good for you!

She sat down next to Dean. Ah, Dean. Nice chap. Decent with a wand. Better with runes. Looking at her like he'd never seen her before. That was new. Or not. Who knew? Never paid much attention to him before anyway. Probably wondering why she'd chosen to sit next to him. Oh well.

"Hi Dean! Pass the sausages please." She said, grabbing the coleslaw and baked potatoes as she greeted him. "Hmm, coleslaw! Love coleslaw. Never can have enough of the stuff!"

"Who are you?" Dean Thomas asked, staring up at the strange girl.

"Hermione, silly! Now, Sausages please?" She asked with her hand out. "Come on lad! Not nice to leave a girl hanging you know."

"Uh-right!" He passed the sausages to her. "Sure, Hermione, yes."

"Thank you!" She smiled at him. Ugh! This coleslaw was _rank_! Didn't like it that much. She shunted it off her plate. Ooh, roasted vegetables! They looked tasty. She tried some. Oh _gods _yes! Best thing she'd had all day. Sausages were good too. Weird, she normally didn't like them much.

She espied a newspaper further down the table and _accio_ed it to herself. Hm, interesting. So everyone knew Voldemort was back again. Except her because, well, she'd died, but hey, now she knew, so it didn't matter. Wait, Boy-Who-Lived missing? Who-ah, Harry. What was it with hyphenation that messed up a name? She hummed to herself as she read on. Apparently she was missing too. Huh, strange that. She was right there. She turned to look at a confused Dean Thomas again.

"Say, Dean? Why does the paper say I'm missing? And where did Harry get off to?"

Dean just looked at her. Was he brain damaged or something? Well, he did sleep in Ron's room most of the year. That probably explained it. "Maybe you should go talk to the headmaster. He'll probably know more than I do."

Albus? Nah. He didn't have time for her anyway. Harry maybe, but Harry wasn't here now, was he? He was missing. Her Harry was missing. Oh well, time to find him.

And she knew just where to go.

* * *

The Room of Requirement! Also known as the Room of Lost things. Harry was lost, but he wasn't a thing. Still, halfway there, flip a coin and you're set. Ooh, new design. Lots of metal everywhere. And twirly-wirly designs-that said things! Awesome. She could read Decoration now. No, not quite. Looks like, what does that picture say, Gallifreyan! Gallifrey. Weird name. Wonder what that meant? Probably something important for later. Right now, though, she had a friend to find. Now, instructions, instructions-ah. The room was, based on pre-death memories, at least partially telepathic. How had she never noticed before? Probably because of Umbridge. Mean bitch. Wonder when the centaurs would let her go. Not that she cared, because it was _Umbridge_. Enough said.

Think of instructions, think of instructions, _think_ of _instructions_-pop! Yes! Oh, she was good. Nice big book too! She loved big books. Great for reading, passing the time and whacking people over the head with. At least she had the shoulders for it now.

Hmm, lessee. Index- introductions, making your wishes come true, studying; basic room set-up, combat; conjuring dummies, how to not use this room, location functionalities. She went to the page on location functionalities. Finding objects-no, finding ideas-no, but sounded like fun, finding yourself-wow, finding people-_yes_.

Okay, so in order to find someone, start by picturing them in your mind. Easy peasy. Harry with glasses on, glasses off, dressed as a wizard, dressed as a hobo-hmm, which to choose? Probably best to go with Harry dressed for a fight. Trainers, tracksuit pants and polo shirt. She worried about her friend's fashion sense sometimes. Then again, she was wearing a cardigan, so maybe it was just a magic thing. Still, great outfit to run in. Points for that. If she'd dressed like that, she may have ended up looking like a tit but she wouldn't have died. Well, no biggie, since she was still alive (puzzler, that). Next time, tracksuit pants and trainers. Lesson learned.

So, picture in place. Next, will a pool of clear water into existence. Okay, rifle through book, making wishes come true, conjuring scrying pools, picture pool in mind (damn, lost picture of Harry-no, still there. Thanks brain!) and _will_. Fantastic, one pool delivered _per spec_, as they say.

Okay, picture of Harry, scrying pool, next up, _incantations_! In bad Latin! Joy. Why not in Celtic instead? Damn magic, making no sense sometimes. Memetics would be easier if it was in plain English, but no, mangling un-dead languages was the name of the game apparently. Not too difficult, though, chant implorations to long-dead gods, chant name of subject, chant desire to find subject and lack of negative intentions towards same, done.

Now, where was he? All Hermione could see was a console of some sort. No picture of Harry though. She tried the steps again. Still the same picture. Maybe he _was_ there. After all, he loved his invisibility cloak thingy, why not use it? Will picture to zoom out-Space. What? Space? As in, middle of empty-freezing vacuum of Space? And was that a Red & Gold Phone Box? Talk about weird. Still, she'd done everything right, the ritual worked, huzzah. Harry wasn't lost. That was a start. Now, how to get there. Back to instructions manual! Oh, she loved instructions manuals-no, she didn't, she hated their condescending tone, but they contained instructions she could follow to make things happen, so she liked them even when the author wrote it out as if he/she was writing for a retarded four-year-old.

So, Index. Wishes, Instructions, Combat, Location-transportation! Yes! She loved this room. This room was cool. So then, picture destination (red & gold phone box, space, orbiting Jupiter apparently, easy to picture), shed blood on door and open. Hmm. Blood. Alright! Underpowered _punctum_-ow, that hurt, wave bloody hand at door, _episkey_, done. Now then, time to open the door. _Allons-y_! She loved French.

* * *

Hmm, interesting place. No sign of Harry. Time to call out his name. "Harry?"

~_Hermione?_

Telepathy? Harry, her friend the telepath? That _was _new. As in, never known that about him before new.

"Hello sweetie. Where are you? And why are you here? Everyone's looking for you."

~_Well,_ Harry's mind-voice hesitated before sighing. _I don't know. It's weird. I'm in the middle of space I think. And you're inside me? It's kind of confusing. _

Hmm. That _was_ weird. Well, that and everything else she'd experienced since waking up, come to think of it. Intensely weird, but hey. There were those gallifreyan sigils again, including one blinking on & off. _Ready_. Ready for what, exactly? But-wow! Space-time coordinates! And how had she known that? And there were others too! All pointing to different times and places! Including instructions on how to get there! Oh wow. Hermione grinned madly. "Hey, Harry, guess what?"

~_What?_

"I think you're the box! And you can travel time! You're a time-travelling box, Harry! YES! Fantastic!" Hermione shouted as she launched herself in the air. All of time. All of space. All theirs. "Oh, and you look _sexy_ like this too! We're going to have so much _fun_ together!" Hermione's hands flew over the console, instinctively grabbing levers and pushing buttons as if she'd been born to this. "Okay then, quick trip through time to test out what you can do then, alright? Let's go-to the Cretaceous! Boo-yah!"

The groan of the engines igniting almost drowned out Harry's.

~_... It's because it's Wednesday, right? I get turned into a magic time-box on Tuesday, so Wednesday is when my best friend carjacks me, right? Bloody hell._

The box disappeared from space.


	15. Терминатор: The Sarah Potter Chronicles

Терминатор: The Sarah Potter Chronicles

Percy Jackson-Harry Potter crossover.

Following the defeat of Voldemort, Sarah Potter left England entirely, allowing the wizarding world to believe her to be dead. Two people, namely Hermione and Ron, know the truth. Mistress of Death, Grand-daughter of Loki, she spends her time looking after her aunt Hel's affairs on Earth and dodging the ever-watchful eyes of the magical world. Of course, that all goes out of the window when a horny god of the sea crosses her path and her son turns out to be the subject of a prophecy himself. She is faced with a choice; run to where even the gods themselves cannot reach her son or introduce the Terminator to greek mythology.

Ridiculously powerful Potter. But, then again, she is facing gods...

* * *

There was not a day that went by where Sarah Potter did not end up cursing her grandmother for being so partial to alcohol. According to aunt Hel, she'd been a champion liar as well as a bit of a minx in bed. Still was if you believed the rumours down in Niflheim. Sarah didn't really want to know about that. Having a grandmother employed as an, ahem, 'serving wench' in the halls of Valholl was not something to write home about. If you had a home in the mortal realm, that is. Bad enough that she'd had a thing for alcohol, but to learn that she'd also loved bedding tall, dark-haired men of a 'mysterious' (read questionably dangerous) nature was the icing on the cake. How else would you come to call a trickster God grandfather?

At least she could take time out to talk to Mom & Dad now. Childhood fantasy made real. Yay. There were perks to being the actual Mistress of Death, after all. Putting up with an anthropomorphic personification that had spent so long around humans that she'd developed a sense of humour (and a rather morbid one at that, but hey, what did you expect) & of gender was worth being able to get to meet her parents. Still, mom was the daughter of Loki. No wonder her father had fallen for Lily. Also, gramps turned out to be a rather nice man even if he tended to be a bit awkward around family. The legends and comic books had never done him justice but, since he'd been the one to inspire them, he never really cared much about them. Mortals weren't really a great concern to Loki in general. The only stipulation he had whenever they had a Potter-Evans-Laufeyson feast was never to ask about the rest of the family. Which, after meeting them, was fine by Sarah.

Sif tolerated her presence somewhat and was a decent conversation topic when she wasn't chasing grandpa around with a jug full of snake venom, but grand-uncle Thor and great-grandfather Odin were, well, taboo subjects. The one time she'd met Thor had been awkward. He'd come to visit his nieces and gotten so drunk he'd hit on her. That... had been an uncomfortable moment right there. But watching Lily summon Cthulhu to chase him away had been awesome. Sadly, mom had declined to teach her that spell, saying that summoning such a creature in the mortal realm would forcibly align the stars and pretty much re-make the universe in the Old One's image again.

Sarah never met Odin. Never wanted to either after learning what her unmitigated bastard of a great- grandfather had done to uncle Jormungandr and aunt Sleipnir. She had enough trouble in her life.

Still, it was a decent life. She had a fraction of the Potter fortune put to good use, the billions in gold bullion her family had accumulated over a millenium of adventuring stashed away for a rainy day, her job as a semi-mortal avatar of Death paid for a decent enough lifestyle while her investments paid for the, ah, extravagant extras and she had the run of Earth. No more need for apparition, she just popped into existence wherever she wanted to, could phase through walls and everyone she met was nice, friendly and somewhat terrified by her odd presence in the mortal realm.

But there was one drawback to her situation-she'd died. Thrice. First time had been in Godric's Hollow. Second time had been in the chamber of Secrets. Third time had been in the forest grove when she'd committed suicide in the name of the Greater Good. There were rules for these kinds of things – the thrice dead could never be entirely part of the mortal world anymore. They could not die, but neither could they live as mortals any longer. That she could deal with. Being trapped in a state of half-life was nothing new, after all. But the one she _couldn't_ deal with, come hell or high water, was the fact that all Thrice Dead were barren. She truly was the last Potter and forever would be.

_That_ had been the final blow, the proverbial nail in the coffin. Everything else, from facing the untold horrors of magical warfare, dying in the most painful manner devised by man, having her life be one of misery due to prophecy and losing those she'd held dear to stupid actions, she could deal with. It was hard, oh yes, but she could live, for a given definition of life as the continued existence of the subject, with it. But to find out that she would, well and truly, forever be the last of the Potters was suffering on a whole new level. After she'd found that one out, she'd taken her gold out of Gringotts, sealed the vaults, resurrected Teddy's parents and foisted her godson off onto them (they weren't happy at having their final rest interrupted, she'd told them to stuff it and spend time with their son), said goodbye to Ron & Hermione and very publicly walked through the Veil of Death to spend some time with aunt Hel.

Auntie Hel had come through for her. She shared a similar affliction to Sarah's, except a lot more horrifying. Hel _could_ fall pregnant, but was cursed to only give birth to dead children. That one had been great-great-grandfather Baldr's idea. It said much about Baldr that Odin was an improvement on his father's ability to handle family members. And despite everything Loki did, all her children were stillborn. Struggling to find out how to counteract the curse had driven him and Sif around the bend for a while. So Hel understood and was there for her. And, after Sarah'd finished crying herself out, Hel had offered her a job as a trouble consultant.

Time passed differently in the realm of the Dead. She had no clue how much time had passed before she pulled herself together again. But when she emerged on an island off the South American coastline, no time had passed at all. Literally. She'd walked through the veil at midday in England and come out the other end on that very same day at that very same time elsewhere. She looked a bit older than her mortal age of eighteen, but what the hell. Her life was strange as it was. Going to the underworld and coming out at the same time you left was no big deal.

That was how, for a few years, Sarah Potter became Death's go-to girl when those whose time had come proved too stubborn to die as they were supposed to. She became the Terminator.

It was a demanding job. Dark Lords were only the start of it. They weren't in short supply either-there was a backlog of hundreds of dark wizards & witches that had cheated their way out of the grasp of the Grim Reaper, sometimes for centuries, sometimes for millenia. And they'd spent all that time preparing for Death's arrival. Soul Jars, possessions, transmogrifications, reincarnation, they used every trick in the book to escape Hel's clutches. Dealing with them was what Sarah did, was uniquely qualified to do in fact. But they weren't the worst, oh no siree. The worst, in Sarah's opinion, were those descended from the various pantheons that had screwed the pooch in some way, shape or form and decided to abuse their powers in order to escape justice at the hands of their relatives. While Sarah could relate, that didn't change the fact that they became abominations in the process, monsters that needed to be taken down yesterday.

The Terminator became a legend in supernatural communities around the world. A dark-haired girl with glasses, green eyes and a peculiar set of scars marring her features, she came for any that defied the Final Call and subdued the most terrifying beings in all of creation. She didn't do dramatics, she just appeared, dealt with any potential interlopers and disposed of her target, never saying a word, never relenting in her pursuit of her targets. She came, you died. No muss, no fuss, no dramatics. The wizarding world went ballistic when they finally got wind of that description. That was the girl-who-lived, the Daily Prophet had shouted. Back from the dead! They launched manhunts around the world, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Hermione called and warned her when the raids started, asking if she was okay. Sarah had never been quite so thankful for having her as a friend as she'd been right then. The invisibility cloak suddenly became her go-to clothing accessory of choice.

She decided to take time off after a particularly difficult Primordial Spirit was finally disposed of. It was questionable if it was even human to begin with, it was that old. It'd lurk around nurseries, choke a small child to death then take over the body when the fledgling soul'd left. Sarah had been beyond furious at finding out about that. She'd been even more furious when she'd finally cornered the spirit and it had tried to overwhelm her by projecting images of its terrible crimes into her head. Other, lesser people would have broken. She just got pissed. It was one of the few times she'd given into her darker impulses and _really_ let the Elder Wand work its magic. On the plus side, the spirit was in Hel's clutches. On the downside, the magics Sarah'd unleashed had dented the earth's crust but hey, the fight had taken place in the Marianas Trench. She doubted anyone'd notice an extra hundred or so metres added to its maximum depth anytime soon. She'd needed a break and took it with both hands.

She started her flight of fancy in Berlin. She liked Berlin. A lot. Then came Paris, followed by Marseilles, Montpellier to catch up with the goings-on in the magical world, Florence, Venice, Rome, Naples, Sicily, Marrakesh, Algiers, Tunis, Barcelona, Lisbon and, finally, New York. She had no idea how much alcohol she imbibed that month. She'd started getting drunk in Munich during a stopover on her way to Paris. By the time she reached Venice, things were kind of blurry. She flat out didn't remember Algeria at all. She passed out in Barcelona and woke up with a hangover of _epic_ proportions in a swanky hotel in New York next to a hunk of a man who she vaguely remembered as being pretty smashed himself. So smashed, in fact, that he'd introduced himself as Poseidon and had asked if she'd like to ride his waves, honey.

She blamed her grandmother for what happened next. Curse her and her 'skip-a-generation' alcohol-induced horniness genes!

* * *

The pregnancy was unexpected. She hadn't even noticed anything initially. No longer being truly mortal did not mean that one was immune to stomach bugs, just that they didn't last nearly as long as they should. Still, after a week of puking her guts up, she started to get concerned. No use dying again because she had been neglecting her health. She'd had enough unhealthy brushes with Death, thank you very much. The girl sure loved her caramel & chocolate toffee cookie ice cream. Sarah could barely walk whenever another of Death's relationships turned sour and the guardian of the Final Gates broke out the tub of ice cream & her much-abused Sex & the City box set. Dead or not, immortal or not, that shit went straight to the hips. So she went and got herself checked out at a hole-in-wall clinic in Canada.

And that was how Doctor Turner went down in unwritten medical history being the first mortal doctor to ever give a semi-immortal being congratulations on her pregnancy.

Hel, ever the cautious optimist when it came to her favourite niece, proclaimed three days' worth of celebrations throughout the realms of the dead. The damakaicho, ruler of a sidereal version of Hell proper on another version of Earth, joined in on the fun and needled Sarah for information, much to her embarrassment.

Sirius'd jumped with joy. Lily'd frowned and decided to give Sarah The Talk again. James had punched the air before joining in. There were diagrams. Diagrams _everywhere_. Loki had just laughed and enjoyed the chaos. Death had smiled and gifted her a smaller version of the Hallows in case the child decided to join the family business. Hel was happy, even if it did mean that the backlog'd have to be put on hold until the child came of age. Cedric had _smirked_, damn him, when he'd caught sight of her expression upon being given those gifts.

And that was that. By herself, she was more than willing to spend time in the Underworld with her family and friends. But she was carrying a child who had yet to die. Even with the legacy of what her parents & grandparents were capable of, it'd be a better idea to wait for the child to be born before spending too much time down in realms reserved for the souls that had passed on. Maybe the child truly _was_ mortal and would die upon passing into the afterlife. Who knew? There were better ways to find out than by forcing a fledgling soul to cross over and back before they were even born.

That didn't mean that she'd be alone, oh no. The Resurrection stone got quite a workout during those months. The appartment she'd rented out in downtown Melbourne gained quite the reputation as the dead decided that they should probably stick close to Sarah in case of an emergency. The obliviators were well & truly baffled too. Had an unregistered necromancer moved into the area? Was it a ritual of some sort? What was it? It was a bad time for the Australian Magical Association, that was for sure.

Then came the birth proper. Space-time warped around Sarah as she went into labour. Day turned to night, gravity ceased to exist, the entire hospital randomly appeared in the fifth century BC for a couple of seconds, the contents of the morgue suddenly reanimated themselves-truly weird shit. Then came the cries of the child and time stood still. Literally. When it restarted, it found Sarah hugging her baby to her and crying tears of joy.

It was a boy. She named him Percy. She couldn't have been happier.

* * *

Percy Jackson (_no, very much not named after Percy Weasley, Fred_. That had been a fun conversation) was a bright kid. Incredibly bright, actually, with a strange affinity for dead languages. He was a terror in class if you believed the teachers (which she did-she'd been the same, after all) and had trouble reading straight English, but made up for it in maths, chemistry and Latin. He could speak Sumerian, Egyptian, Ancient Greek and old Norse like a native. He loved museums and would quite happily wile his free time away in the Potter library with nary a care in the world after school. Sarah had done her utmost to shield him from the magical world. The gods knew what kind of trouble that'd cause and she'd already had to scold her grandfather for even _thinking_ what he'd been thinking when she'd raised her concerns. He'd learn magic after going to college and that was final.

He had few friends, which didn't strike Sarah as odd despite what the teachers said. She'd only ever had two good friends growing up, after all, and they'd been the best of friends when not succumbing to silly things like jealousy and rule-abiding behaviour. He was able to cross over from the mortal realm to the underworld thanks to a bit of tweaking from Auntie Hel, which meant that he got to spend time with his grand-parents. To him, of course, grand-pa and grand-ma lived in a gated community. Sarah wondered what his reaction'd be when he found out that the 'gated community' he'd gone to visit grand-pa and grand-ma in was located outside of three-dimensional space.

He loved swimming. He could hold his breath underwater for fifteen minutes which, to Sarah, seemed relatively normal. To everyone else, though...

All the schools he'd attended over the years considered him to be something of a freak, though only the truly stupid ever called him that. The first bully to call him that ended up facing the freak's mother, after all. The bullies tended to never speak another word again and piss themselves when left alone in a dark room after having _that_ conversation.

He was a happy kid despite it all. Sarah'd gone out of her way and bent herself into a pretzel making sure her son could enjoy the normal & relatively happy childhood she'd never had. She said she worked at an accounting office in downtown Manhattan, which wasn't quite true. She owned it and only ever set foot there in the mornings to catch up on the latest events within the firm and handle any customers important enough to warrant time with her. After that, she unhooked Death's time turner (she hadn't needed it since the Pleistocene era, apparently) and spun herself back a couple of hours. In truth, most of her day was taken up making absolutely sure none of her enemies went after her son.

And she had many enemies. A few of them of the not-so-mortal variety too. Keeping them focused on _her_ rather than on Percy _was_ the job. Sarah Potter (now Jackson thanks to a more than a little corrupt half-goblin that owed her favours) did whatever she could to distract them, which was just as well. A jotunn attacking Manhattan would have been the least of it.

Of course, she'd reckoned with her enemies. She hadn't taken into account Percy's Dad's.

* * *

The museum was rather nice, truth be told. Sarah was glamoured to look like a plump little lady dressed in green (she'd thought of dressing in pink before remembering Umbridge) and had joined Percy's tour group to make sure he'd be fine. There were Percy and Grover, two peas in a pod. Grover had many of the same problems as Percy, but could only really be called a genius when it came to ancient greek. Sarah wondered about that sometimes. The two were inseparable.

She revelled in being close to her son. No matter how many years went by, being close to him and watching him grow into a young man never got old. She paid attention to everything but the tour group itself. The paintings were nice, she reckoned. The skeletons of long-dead animals were awesome, in her opinion. There were parts of Niflheim purely dedicated to the spirits of these ancient beasts. She'd taken Percy to see one when he was going through his Dinosaur phase. He'd called it Jurassic Park. Loki'd laughed. Still, to see the bones themselves, assembled in such pain-staking detail, was something else entirely.

Something changed. She stiffened as the oppressive feel of forces older than life itself started to pervade the exhibition room the group was in. They were-oh boy. Forces of the Underworld. Something had subtly shifted the entire museum into a pocket of frontier reality, the boundary lines where the normal rules of existence no longer truly applied. It was familiar, thanks to Hel's tutelage on things from beyond reality itself, but was different from what she was used to. This wasn't Hel's work. She made a decision.

**COME**_**.**_

The ring, the cloak and the wand materialised on her. Percy startled as he heard _something_ that sounded familiar and noticed that the old green lady'd disappeared. He stiffened. Sarah smirked. Constant vigilance. That's her boy. Now, to find the source of the disturbance.

**REVELIO.** Using The Voice was a perk of being Death's Master. It was silent to ears that haven't been touched by Death, could command the Universe to do her bidding on small things (which, to the universe, often meant events whose effects were confined to a single galactic cluster) and was the main vocal channel for eldritch magic. Even the gods could not use The Voice without consequences including, but not limited to, headaches, a bad case of theophysical shingles and/or being trapped in a mortal body for a thousand years. Death and, by extension, her master, could use it freely. It was perfect for the Elder Wand. A wave of not-magic swept out across the room, highlighting shadows that shouldn't be there and the other, less sane _things_ that dwelt on the edges of dimensions. And then there was the pre-Algebra teacher, who lit up like a bonfire. Percy and Grover shimmered under the wave of not-magic. Interesting.

She swept her invisibility cloak off and cast a perception filtering charm, the morning's black business suit with deep blue tie seemingly perfect for this situation. She adjusted the cuffs on her suit as she eyeballed a seemingly oblivious but very wrong-looking Miss Dodds.

"Mom? What are you doing here?"

"Percy, be a good boy and come stand behind me." She frowned at Grover, who was eyeing Miss Dodds in that _oh shit_ way of someone who knew what they were facing and not liking it one bit. "Mister Underwood." She said, attracting his attention and making Grover pale even more when she noticed Percy's scary mom standing not five metres behind him and looking severely pissed off. "Join me, please, and tell me what that _thing_ is before I drag it out of your mind."

"Uh,well..."

"**Well?**" She asked, using the Mortal version of The Voice. Percy called it her Mom Voice, capitals and all.

"It'safury!" the boy squeaked.

"And what is a fury when it's at home, Mister Underwood?" She asked, eyeing the strange thing wearing human skin as it seemed to try and break through her notice-me-not charm keyed to supernatural entities.

"Minor vengeance deities according to mythology." Percy spoke up. Maybe one day she'd introduce him to Hermione. That'd be fun to watch. "They punish oathbreakers, apparently."

"Ah, Semnai?" She asked him.

"Yes." She'd often wondered what punishment Riddle was receiving in whatever Hell had gotten him. The fact that he attempted to break the oath he'd made to Lily Lokisdottir (or Evans, as the rest of the world knew her) meant that at least one of his horcruxes were entrusted to beings such as the Semnai. Facing one was going to be a learning experience if what she'd read was right.

"Excellent. Whatever happens, stay behind me, got that? _Finite_." The perception filter charm disappeared in a haze of black. "**Welcome, emissary of the Dirae. What brings you to this realm?**" Charm and flattery. Never hurt to try it out once in a while.

The former Miss Dodds glared at her, her human skin and clothing melting off her frame, revealing a lithe body with leathery wings and eyes weeping blood. "What are you?" The being asked, its ethereal voice resonating across the hall in jagged echoes.

"My name is Sarah Jackson and, last I checked, I am human." That she hadn't bothered to check in quite a long time remained unsaid.

"Where is the one named Percy Jackson?" So she couldn't see him. Interesting. She scowled.

"**My son**? What business do the likes of you have with him?"

"He stole! Stole an artefact of the gods. He is a thief." The fury said in a dead monotone.

"Hmm, I thought that auntie Hel had dealt with that. Besides, he was five when he stole that amulet and I gave it back." The fury looked perplexed at Sarah's words. "Now, why are you here?"

"He stole the Helm of Darkness. He must be punished."

" Now I know for a fact that he didn't steal _that_." He wasn't that much of a trickster yet, though Loki was working on it whenever he dropped by for tea. "And why is he being punished for a theft he never commited? Without a trial, no less?" She asked, careful to note any aggressive ouvertures the monster was likely to make.

"Such is the will of the gods." The fury said, shifting her stance and baring her teeth. "Now-AHHHHHHH!"

The blast of sound raced towards her, a visible wave of sound distorting itself in mid-air to bypass the children between them. Glass shattered as the wave passed through. Wood splintered. Bones exploded in a cloud of dust. And Sarah levelled her wand. **SILENCIO**. The incoming wave disappeared. The fury was silenced. Sarah was _angry_.

She waved the Elder Wand around, not bothering with incantations as she reached beyond magic and into the murky space that dwelt between it and the forces dictating & enforcing the laws of nature. The world lurched as the museum was forcibly dropped back into the mortal realm once and for all time, instances of that same museum disappearing in all the other worlds where the potential for its existence was realised. They all crashed into that one museum on that one Earth, all at the same time. The building became Real in a way few others had ever been before. Oops, wasn't supposed to do that. Oh, well.

The fury screamed in silent panic as it felt its connection to the fringes of reality shrinking ever further and frantically scrabbled for any way of anchoring itself to this world. Sarah didn't give her time, once again weaving together things that were real and weren't, were magic and weren't, depending on your point of view, and throwing the tapestry of intent at the primordial embodiment of vengeance.** REPELLO MONSTRUM**

The result was boring, really. One second had the fury standing there, the next a rather frazzled-looking Miss Dodds was staring at the ruined exhibit with wide eyes. Then again, expelling an immortal being from reality meant that the space it'd once occupied had to be filled somehow, so why not by the rather dumpy-looking pre-algebra teacher that used to fill it? The fury was gone... for now. Miss Dodds was not as dead as she'd thought she'd been after her body was possessed by the monstrous thing whose spirit had just been blasted clear across several dozen galaxies through sheer force of will. Miss Dodds took in the ruined hall. She took in the dazed and awed children staring at the three people standing at the back. She figured out _exactly_ who was responsible for this mess.

"JACKSON!" She roared in anger. Hmm, maybe the Fury had left some of itself behind? Sarah had no idea.


	16. The Damned

The Damned

**A/N: **I've got a thing for evil heroes fighting the good fight. I don't know why, it's just shiny. This is how I picture an evil trio to be like. Bonus; you can just imagine the duplicity actually applying to the canon characters too. Guess this could be a challenge.

Actually, let's make it one:

**Challenge of The Damned**: Harry, Hermione and Ron have committed heinous crimes in the name of survival. Now, they're ready to start taking action.

Requirements: H/HR/R pairing, evil!Trio (as in, if winning/surviving means skinning kittens they'll skin that damn kitten), no joining Death Eaters. No bashing whatsoever-it's the circumstances that make them what they are, not Dumbledore, the Weasleys or anyone else. Canon applies, kinda-the same events take place, but how they happen and why is up to you. Have fun. And remember, they're Evil. Note the use of capitals in the previous sentence. There is nothing and no-one they won't do if it means that crucial extra minute, that one edge they need, those few extra galleons they could put to good use.

Tata! And good luck to you all. Hope you enjoy it and, once again, I own none of this.

* * *

Ronald Billius Weasley. Thief, liar and coward. Hermione Jane Granger. Cheat, traitor and drug dealer. Harry James Potter. Dark Wizard, murderer, torturer and mind-rapist. Heroes all.

Are you familiar with their story? How they met on the train? How they bonded over a fallen troll in a bathroom? How their destiny was set out for them in one night of adventuring to save a stone from a madman?

Lies. All of it. They did all those things, yes, that part is true... somewhat. But the real story runs somewhat different. It's easy to be a hero, after all, when you have no decisions to make. Good vs evil, black vs white, it's easy in the stories. This wasn't a story. These weren't heroes. They were kids. At least at first. What events turned them into, on the other hand, was not something you'd label heroic. 'Do whatever it takes to win' is not a statement to take lightly.

* * *

The train rumbled along a forgotten railway line deep in the English countryside. Three children-a redheaded boy, a bushy-haired girl and a dark-haired boy were huddled over a map of their school. That school was Hogwarts. These children were the golden trio. And they were planning.

"What's the situation?" Ron asked.

"Large numbers of Aurors have been moving in & out of Hogwarts over summer. Most of them have been combing the maze for clues if I read their movements right. Some, however, have been going in & out of the headmaster's office like there was no tomorrow." Harry said, nodding at Hermione. "What do you think?"

Hermione pulled a book out of her backpack. "A couple of days ago, my copy of _Educational law; what should & shouldn't be known and its effect on you_ updated itself. Fudge passed an amendment to the educational oversight regulations that re-instated the position of Head Inquisitor." Ron just looked at her quizzically. "The Head Inquisitor was originally a position appointed by an earlier version of the Wizengamot for the stated purpose of, quote, 'eradicating dark forces at their origin', unquote. The position was disbanded when Phineas Nigellus Black, a known Dark Wizard at the time, was appointed headmaster by Hogwarts itself, though don't ask me how that happened."

Harry frowned. "And? Voldemort has returned. It makes sense for them to appoint a Dark Wizard hunter to keep an eye on the school."

"Not when the new mission of the Head Inquisitor is stated as being 'to root out enemies of the government and eradicate dissension'. They're not sending a dark wizard catcher to the school. They're sending a political commissar."

Harry sighed. "Bugger. How does this interfere with our schedule?"

"Badly." Ron said, frowning in thought. "We were finally going to break cover this year, as you two know. It's utterly ridiculous that the only thing that's saved the school over the past four years has been us three. And I'm sick of being made to look like the class clown..." He snorted. "Anyway, dramatics aside, this means another year of keeping up appearances. With the ministry hunting revolutionary ghosts instead of Death Eaters, the best we can hope for is to maybe get the defence program up & running, though even setting that up is up for grabs. I also think that we should fast-track that weapons smuggling ring if we possibly can. Getting that done early may be the best option if we want to avoid detection later on."

"What do Fred & George have to say about that?" Hermione asked. "It's their business, after all."

"They say they'll try to speed things up. Dad got the heads-up about things changing at Hogwarts and I clued the twins in back at Order HQ, so they've had a bit of advance warning. The problem is not them, though, it's-"

"The Goblins." Harry interjected. "Those little fuckers are a pain to get things done through. I've already had to pay a sizeable chunk of last month's allowance to them just to get the initial shipment up & running. Merlin knows how much they'll charge if I request an early delivery. On the bright side, though-" He picked three packets out of his open trunk "I bring gifts."

"The wands? Oh, Harry!" Hermione said, hugging him.

"Finally." Ron muttered, opening his box and clutching his untraceable back-up wand. "Only took them what? A year and a half? Bloody wankers."

"Yeah, but they're metal wands, Ron. No more trace, no more snapping, no more surveillance." Harry retorted. "I think it was worth the wait."

"Brilliant." Hermione waved her wand around in a lazy arc, conjuring small orbs of blue flame and making them dance around the cabin. "Feels more flexible than my other one, less powerful though." She smiled. "I like it."

"Okay, back to business. We can do both early-set up the defence program _and_ try and expedite the weapons shipment. What about the narcotics? Hermione?"

"Well, the arrowroot powder and poppy concentrate potion are ready. I had to spend more money than anticipated getting the cerberus drool, but not by enough to impact the sales price on the Essence of Peace."

"Good. And who is head boy and head girl this year?"

"Albert Ungarn and Helen Magnus." Ron said. "Said so in the 'what to do now you're a prefect' package."

"Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Albert's a return customer of mine." Hermione said. "Helen's more of a 'quick fix' girl." She shrugged. "Most Ravenclaws are until seventh year." Which is when they have a 'quick study fix' almost every day. At half a galleon a pop, that was a lot of money.

"You've been doing this too long." Harry deadpanned.

Hermione bristled. This was a sensitive topic to the trio since the third task. "Hey, that polyjuice potion didn't pay for itself, you know. The Slytherin Quidditch team payed for it." She huffed. "Besides, who knew that the library would be the best place to sell that stuff anyway?"

"Anyway, see what you can do about Helen. Having two junkies in our pocket would definitely level the playing field ." Ron said.

"Don't worry, I've got the perfect concoction just for her. Modified pepper-up potion that increases your focusing ability for three days." She cackled. "We're going to make a killing off that one."

"Just don't let them overdo it. Cedric was pretty damn high by the time I met him in the maze, you know. If he'd been sober..."

She scowled. "Don't remind me. He was my favourite customer last year. Pawned a copy of _Magicke Moste Improper_ for a week's supply of Endurance Weed and never came back for it." Why he hadn't returned for it was left unsaid. "At least nobody's done anything as stupid as Sally-Anne. I _told_ her what the correct dosages were, but did she listen? Noo, of course not." She sighed. "Sorry, yes, I _have_ been doing this for too long. But what else can we do? Every year, we need more and more money just to give ourselves a fighting chance. Do you know how much it costs to get the Improper Use of Magic Office to turn a blind eye?"

"Five hundred galleons." Harry quoted from memory. "Went up to ten thousand this summer. Apparently, Fudge had decided to pay close attention to me and that was the asking price to get him off my back. Wish I'd paid it now."

"Hey! That was not your fault. They sent _dementors_ after you." Ron exclaimed. "Man, I wish we'd gotten Seamus on board sometimes. Then we could solve all our summer problems without using magic."

"Seamus?" Harry asked, non-plussed.

"Boom." Hermione supplied. "See an enemy? Blow him into chunks." She giggled. "We're so getting that psycho into our defence program."

"Good. Then that's settled." Harry announced. "Now, take your pick. What's it going to be this year? Deadly magical artifact? Defence Professor? Voldemort himself? Personally, I think it's going to be the defence professor."

"Artifact." Hermione said.

"All three." Ron said and smiled at their stares. "What? It generally is a combination of all of them. Well, them and the Slytherins..."

They snorted and went to work. The one thing the Golden Trio never wasted was time. And there was a lot more than usual to do this year.

* * *

The beginning-of-year feast had gone relatively well. Ron'd covered for them by eating like a pig and making generous amounts of noise. He hated it, what with him no longer being a twelve-year-old, but changes in behaviour generally lead to nosy gossips snooping around, so he was stuck in that role for the time being. Harry spent his time eating and preparing his to-do list for the year. Hermione passed some messages along to the other houses stating what she had on offer and at what prices. The three of them also paid close attention to their teachers for the year.

Dolores Umbridge, the bitch from hell. Severus Snape, the ever-vigilant bastard. Albus Dumbledore aka 'two-face', as Hermione called him. Minerva McGonnagall, she-who-watches. Pomona Sprout aka 'the ditz'. And Filius Flitwick, the one nobody ever notices. These were the main threats to the Golden Trio's operations. They were the epitomy of the phrase 'when seconds count, help is just minutes away'-always too late to deal with the situation but too early for proper evidence disposal to be conducted. The trio watched them like hawks. The teachers watched back.

The announcements were surprising. Dolores Umbridge was the defence professor, apparently, and would also be observing classes to ensure that only 'approved' material made it into the teaching curriculum. Three guesses as to who got to play the role of Inquisitor General later on in the year.

The feast was decent enough, if not a spot on Hermione's mom's cooking. The trek up to the dorm rooms was tiring. The trio went to their dorms, unpacked their belongings and hid their not-so-innocent belongings away.

Harry pulled the curtains first, _lumos_ed himself a table light and settled down with a copy of _blood rituals, runes & everything in-between_. Possession carried a minimum sentence of ten years in Azkaban. Reading the contents was a life sentence. It'd saved his life last year. Rule of thumb; if it was illegal, it was useful. Magical society was strange like that.

Ron followed shortly thereafter, remembering to hit Seamus, Dean and Neville with a silent drowsiness hex before pulling his own curtains shut. Their snores reached his ears just as he was finishing up a draft for a new narcotics potion for his Hufflepuff classmates. Sprout may be a ditz, but she did regularly check her charges for magical potions abuse. Wouldn't do for her to spot those.

Hermione hexed her dorm-mates into a deep sleep, pulled her bedcurtains shut and tip-toed over to the fifth-year boy's dorm. Harry was probably not asleep yet. If he was, well, Ron was always up for some company. She loved her boys dearly. If anyone knew just how much she loved them, there was going to be trouble. And what else was new, pray tell?

* * *

The trio were in the training room, as they called it. Harry'd gotten the secret off of Lupin in third year; a room that became anything you wanted it to be. The marauders had used it as a lab. The Golden Trio used it as a place to practice their more... questionable magical studies.

"_Avada Kedavra_" Ron yelled out, hitting the spider dead on. The spider keeled over in a groan. Thank you, Fake Moody.

"Okay, well done Ron." Harry said, using some blood to paint a runic ward onto the ground. If this worked, then they could practice magic in the muggle world without fear of detection. He'd been working on it ever since his trial. "Hey, Hermione, come and check these please?"

"Just a moment!" She shouted out from behind her chemistry set. "Nitroglycerine is not easy to make properly."

"Just put it under a stasis spell."

"Not at this stage. When it's finished, _then_ I can do that. But right now that'd mean premature detonation. Boom goes Hogwarts."

"Okay, take your time." Dying at the hands of Dark Wizards was one thing. Horrifying, but a plausible outcome. Dying because you tried to make dynamite and almost succeeded was a pathetic way to go.

"There! Done." She waddled over, her off-white leather labcoat billowing behind her. "Now then, let's see. Got the schematics for the ward?" Harry wordlessly passed a blood-soaked piece of paper to her. "Ugh, go get cleaned up Harry. You're leaking, and not in a fun way. Hmm." She checked the schematics over and compared it to the circle on the ground. "Looks good. How do you activate it?"

"Just channel magic at it."

"Any magic?"

"Yes."

"Does it affect the operation of the ward?"

"It shouldn't. It's a portable version of a standard concealment ward. What kind of magic activates it shouldn't affect the outcome at all."

"If you say so. _Depulso_." A stream of invisible magic left her wand and hit the array. The runes glowed before a grey bubble snapped into existence around the ward itself. "Was it supposed to do that?"

"What-oh! Yes, it was. Once cast, you should be able to tighten and expand it with a thought. The larger it gets, the less visible the bubble is-and the more fragile it becomes."

"_Crucio!_" Ron shouted out in the background. A roiling, boiling, angry red line hit the spider on the table, making the thing squeal in agony. Harry looked up and compared Ron's spell to his own.

"No Ron, you have to _mean_ it. You have to want to hurt the spider. Remember Aragog?"

At the name, the line solidified into a tight beam that connected the hapless creature to Ron's wand. The squeals became shrieks.

"Okay, that's good Ron. I think that's good enough..." Harry trailed off at seeing the look on Ron's face. It wasn't a nice one. "Ron, stop it. Ron, _enough_!"

Hermione went up to the ecstatic-looking redhead and socked him in the jaw. "Ow! What was that for?"

"For enjoying it, you idiot. How many times do we have to tell you? Cast, hold for three seconds, release. That's generally enough to keep the enemy down - as you well know." She snapped.

Ron had the grace to look sheepish, though the blush of embarrassment wasn't entirely sincere. "Okay, sorry."

"I don't want a sorry Ron, I want you to _stop doing that_. Dark magic is not a toy you cast for your own amusement. If you want ecstacy, just ask me. There's potions for that."

Ron made a face. "No offence Hermione, but there's no way I'm swilling that junk. I know what goes into it."

Hermione sniffed. "And yet you almost cream your pants every time you _crucio_ something. I just don't understand you sometimes."

Harry snickered. His friends were awfully distracting, but he wouldn't exchange them for the world.

* * *

They had roles to play, of course. They'd fallen into them after the Troll incident, when the gossiping started. The rumours were wild-Hermione was Harry's mudblood love-slave, apparently. At eleven, that was not something you wanted to hear about yourself. Ron was trying to kill the boy-who-lived. The three were involved in a love triangle (which didn't happen for another three years) and the troll had been an assassination attempt by a jealous witch (which only happened in fourth year). And that was just the start.

They were overwhelmed by the attention their peers paid to rumours. Any abnormal behaviour was commented upon and examined in minute detail. The three friends, having just found themselves to be friends after all, had counteracted this by acting as they had beforehand. Hermione was the bossy, yet helpful girl. Ron was da pig. Harry was the silent, sullen broodmeister most of the time and happy, cheerful & outgoing at other times. Then, after the chamber of secrets thing started the rumour mill up again, they reacted in the same way. Their roles were set from then on out.

It baffled them how easy it was to keep up the charade. Nobody questioned how Harry'd not varied his repertoire of emotions beyond happy, sad and angry in five years' worth of school dinners. Nobody questioned Ron's distressing lack of table manners at school and prim & proper eating attitude at home. Nobody really ever saw Hermione as anything but the helpful yet bossy side-kicked to the boy-who-lived. Five years and they'd never gone beyond the basic acting they'd thought would never work.

How could it, when it would be easy to piece together what they were _really_ like?

When Hermione got a hold of _moste potente potions_, she'd looked up the ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion. Sure, Snape had a store of Boomslang skin on hand, but almost none of the other ingredients. Knockturn Alley sold the other, more questionable items no problem-but they required upwards of a hundred galleons to get a hold of. Ron, to put not too fine a point to it, was poor. Harry couldn't access any money whilst in school without telling the headmaster what it was for. And Hermione had pounds to burn and nowhere to spend them.

But those weren't the only potions listed in that book.

Tthe breakthrough came from Harry complaining about headaches. Flitting around on a broom in cold weather was not conducive to a healthy body. The migraine potion was easy to make. Harry breezed through the next set of practices and his teammates asked Hermione for some too. Hermione got an idea.

Three weeks later, she was brewing stimulants, concentration enhancers and euphoria inducers from memory. She'd made enough money to buy all the ingredients for polyjuice three times over, which was handy when you were making three doses of the stuff. She had yet to stop making the other, more questionable potions. Ron stole the boomslang skin from Snape anyway. Ron liked stealing from people he couldn't stand. Half his quills, ink, parchment and candy were filched from the Malfoy-Crabbe-Goyle squad.

Ron never made a secret of who he was. Brash, brave and loyal, the quintessential Gryffindor. But he was also poor, had a strained relationship with his family and was fighting for his life on a regular basis. He realised that him & his friends were in trouble half-way through first year when they found out about Nicholas Flamel's involvement in their problems.

This was the big leagues. Flamel was rumoured to go after _anyone_ that threatened his stone guns blazing. And, when the wizard trying to kill you is six hundred years old, those were some pretty hefty guns. They needed an edge. Ron didn't have an edge, but he knew where to find one.

He stole anything he considered useful which, after a couple of years of saving him & his friends' asses from immediate danger, came to mean 'that which isn't nailed down and under heavy scrutiny'.

He'd tried lifting the triwizard cup last year and replacing it with a fake on the basis that if an artifact could bind someone into competing in such a stupid thing without their consent, then it could rope others into doing whatever else the owner of the cup wanted. Such a thing was too dangerous in anyone's clutches but the trio's. They wouldn't abuse it... too much. It didn't work, though; the buggers _had_ nailed it down. Fake Moody was a bastard.

Hermione & Ron never kept a tally of exactly how much they'd made over the three years they'd been doing these things. If they had, they'd have realised that, taking expenses and bribes off the roster, they were sitting on a small fortune's worth of galleons.

And then there was Harry.

Harry was hailed as a hero. That wasn't true. He was a murderer, pure and simple. He saw it as his job to kill anyone and anything that threatened him or his friends-if he could get away with it. It frightened him when he'd realised what he was. Eleven-year-olds generally don't feel as smug as he had when standing over their defence professor's roasting corpse. There was a _thrill_ to killing enemies that he'd come to treasure. Quirrel, of course. The basilisk. Tom's sapient diary. The troll, once he'd tracked the fucker down again. The grindylows. The mermen. The acromantula. Some of the Death Eaters during his mad scrabble for the cup. Then there were the unofficial killings; the wannabe Dark Lords that attacked Harry over the summer, looking to challenge the heroic boy wizard only to find that he was too busy shoving a knife into their spine to care. The monsters that no amount of research could find names for (Hermione'd tried naming them and had gotten as far as Shoggoth before giving it up as a bad job). The crooks & thugs that welched on their dealings with the trio (and weren't _they _fun to fight). All the various fluffy creatures he'd conjured to get some magical practice in over the years. He'd killed them all. He had a higher kill count than about half the Death Eaters gracing the shores of Azkaban. He'd checked.

He tended to stay away from using the _kedavra_, funnily enough. The connotations of using the spell made him queasy-doubt that his parents would approve too much if he did, for one. That, and his unforgiveable of choice was _crucio_ anyway, since he didn't get lost in it. Hermione cast a marvellous _imperio _and Ron was a past master at the _avada_s (plural, since Hermione found the best books ever). Easier to use his uncle's pistol on humans and whatever magics were required to destroy the beast of the week. Case in point: casting a _kedavra_ on dementors stunned the bastards. That'd been fun to find out.

Oh, he acted like the boy hero, vacillating between angst and manic highs. But that was all it was; an act. In truth, he constantly evaluated the situation, scheming, plotting and politicking his way into the background, waiting to pounce on the next enemy that dared target him.

Only five people knew exactly what he was; Petunia, Vernon and Dudley, who considered him a freak and rightly so. Those were only the beings he'd killed since entering Hogwarts, after all. Seeing a five-year-old behead a stray cat for biting him was not something you forgot in a hurry. Seeing a five-year-old behead a cat by ripping its head off was something else entirely. And then there was Ron and Hermione. They'd huff when he told them about his most recent victim, help him get the blood off his robes, sit down with a nice cup of tea in the kitchens and the three of them would talk it out. Afterwards, Ron'd hop off to bed and Hermione would come and snuggle at Harry's side for the night. He had awesome friends. They helped bury the bodies too.

They'd never had to _act_ as friends. They simply were friends. Friends with more than their fair share of secrets. Friends that saw horrors on a daily basis that'd shattered the minds of wizards older & stronger than they were. Friends that committed crimes & atrocities in the name of self-preservation. But friends first and foremost.

They played their roles. Lived their lives. Stuck together as they should. But acting meant behaving in a way that others could predict based on what they thought your character was. And that meant making sacrifices.

* * *

Dolores Umbridge was a predictable person. A small-minded, petty, high-born bureaucrat fishing for the position of minister come the next round of elections, she had many ideas about what she wanted to do to the wizarding world in the name of 'progress' and 're-unification'. Ideas influenced & embraced by her patron, Lucius Malfoy, and Cornelius Fudge, a minion given a position of leadership. She would do anything for just a smidgen more power. That meant that her approach to enabling the 're-education' of' wayward Hogwarts students' would be... brutal. Harry knew how the game was played. Stage one would be provocation. Stage two would be persecution. Stage three would be execution. She was the poster child for fascism. Harry wondered if she knew that, too.

The trio had a dilemma-who got to be the victim this year? Hermione was 'outcast' in third year, a useful little diversion to ensure that nobody noticed what the trio were _really_ planning. It worked so well that they used it again in fourth year. Ron was nothing if not an accomplished liar, his 'throwing friendship away in a snit' ploy proving extremely useful in getting information from places the trio together couldn't reach. Hermione had made it a point to reward his performance with gusto, making Harry slightly jealous (though he'd never say so). Guess that meant that this year's victim was going to be Harry Potter, suddenly being infected by an onset of 'stubborn idiot' so as to draw Umbridge's ire away from the other two.

Dolores, bless her black, blood-stained little heart, played along like a champ. She'd been gunning for him specifically, after all. It worked a little too well. He'd played up the 'insulted hero' angle lifted directly from Lockhart. Lockhart had taught them a lot about acting out a role. Well, that and the _obliviate_ spell. Lockhart was best used in defence as a test dummy. Boohoo for him that it'd backfired so spectacularly. Harry occasionally wondered if the man still drooled when drawing breath. But yeah, he'd acted like a prick in class. Umbridge had taken surprisingly little in the way of needling before going along with it.

_Detention_. Such a deceitful word. So many things could be done to a pupil acting like an ass. Take first year, for example. Smuggling a dragon out of Hogwarts, how dumb did the headmaster think they were? They'd traded the dragon for information, not out of the goodness of their heart. Charlie Weasley knew more about Hogwarts than the twins did, after all, and his little black book of nooks & crannies had served them well. But the Forbidden Forest? Damn, that'd been a bad time. Harry didn't have much in the way of luck when it came to detentions but, sometimes, they couldn't be avoided. Answering fan mail? Try fishing for information.

So it came as no surprise to Harry when he espied a blood quill sitting next to a piece of paper. _I must not tell lies_? Fair enough. But he would, oh he would.

He passed the information onto Ron the following day. Blood quills had all kinds of uses when it came to Dark Magic. Hermione, ah, comforted him. Life was good. Painful, but good.

* * *

"It is time." Hermione whispered while the trio were having lunch in the kitchens. "We've got the weapons. Umbridge is being dealt with by you. I've finished brewing the potions and other things. And Ron's been twiddling his thumbs for almost a week now."

"What's next on the agenda, then?" Harry asked as he sawed away at his overcooked steak.

"Defence program." Ron said, eating slowly & carefully, just like he liked doing. "Umbridge's making a right toss of the whole thing, apparently. The NEWTS students are screaming bloody murder about it, our peers are complaining about not having anything exciting to do and, quite frankly, _I'm_ getting a bit worried that I'm spending more time on Dark Magic than I'm spending on learning ways to counter it."

Harry nodded. "Right then, what's the plan?"

"There's a meeting in the Three Broomsticks a couple of days from now. Roughly thirty people know about it, so I anticipate about fourty-odd turning up." Hermione huffed at their look. "I arranged it yesterday with my customers in the library. That's how I know about it, okay?"

"Fourty?" Ron asked. "Wow, Dolores must be real crap if we've got that many turning up at this. Do we need a room or something? Because I could get the twins to do something about it. They're bound to turn up anyway, so I say let's get them to cash in some of their supposed influence over Rosmerta."

"Not necessary." Harry interjected. "Rosie likes me. I'll arrange it. Neither of you are to have your names connected to this, are we clear? I am not sitting a detention every bloody week to distract Umbridge just for her minions to get the drop on you." The other two nodded.

"Rosie, Harry?" Hermione asked flatly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Yes, there is." He took the bristling girl's hand. "I've never told you this, but you're my life, Hermione. I can't imagine it without you."

Hermione turned beet red. Ron roared with laughter. She smiled. "Prats." She said fondly. "Absolute prats, the both of you."

* * *

There weren't fourty people at the meeting. There were sixty, from all ages, houses and classes. All looking to see what the fuss was about.

It went rather well, he thought.

The thirty or so students that turned up for defence classes with Professor Emeritus Harold James Potter had a good time. They learned useful things – casting _reducto_es, how to use a _finite_ in a duel, that vanishing items was dead useful if you could target the wand of your foe (If not, then just vanish their bones. Lockhart again. Not that they told the students high on education that) and that dodging was a perfectly valid form of defence in duelling.

Then class ended. Everyone left. Well, everyone except for ten names that the trio'd been casing for a year: Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Ginevra Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Blaise Zabini, Tracy Davis, the mudblood princess of Slytherin herself and Cho Chang. "Form up!" Harry yelled, causing the students to look at him in confusion. "Form. Up. Make two lines, five per line please." He growled. The ten students formed up, wondering what was going on. Hermione stepped forward.

"Harry, Ron and I have a proposal for you." Ten sets of eyes looked up at her in interest. "Five years. It's been five years since we've come to Hogwarts. Safest place in magical Britain, they said. Best institution for magic in the world, they said. Come and have fun, _they said_!" Hermione's hair started to crackle. "Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bull_shit_! Have any of you any idea of what us three have been through? Trolls, basilisks, dementors, _do you know what it's been like facing these monsters_?" Ten heads shook. "Let me tell you, it's a shitty life. I came here expecting to learn magic. I end up in a bloody war. I end up fighting for my bloody life every other week. I end up having nightmares where my friends are dead, my parents are dead, where I am dead-because that could happen very soon. I go back to the muggle world every bloody summer and have to lie to my parents about how much _fun_ school is."

She breathed in, breathed out. "The same applies to you, you know. You live here, just like us. You study here, just like us. But you've not seen what we've seen. You haven't heard what we've heard. And, quite frankly, there'll come a day where you see too much and hear too much-and you'll freeze, much like we did facing the troll. Except that we survived. Take it from me that, as you are now, _you won't_." She hissed. "Which is why we've come to you. Voldemort has returned. He's broken his minions out of Azkaban. He's plotting, right now, to take over wizarding Britain. And he's going to be coming after us. There's only three of us. That's nowhere near enough. We need people we can trust to help us. People that are willing to fight for what's right and not take the easy path and ignore the problems until it's too late. In short, we need you."

The room was dead silent. You could hear a pin drop, as Ron demonstrated. "We'll teach you the skills you'll need to survive what's coming. We'll show you how to use Hogwarts to your advantage, how to live long enough and be strong enough to win. We'll teach you what we've learned in five years of desperately trying to keep your sorry asses alive. All that, and more, is yours if you stay and help us. Anyone else, class is over. There's the door. If you mention this to anyone, you won't live to complete the sentence. That is all."

Cho, Fred, George, Seamus (_Damn_, Hermione thought) and Blaise walked out the door. Fred & George was understandable. They had a future ready for them. The trio didn't. Susan stared at it longingly, but her aunt had raised her not to run when the going was about to get interesting.

The door closed with a thunderous _Boom_ before disappearing. Hermione stepped back. Harry stepped forward.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen, hello and welcome to magical warfare 101. There's one rule, and one rule only; do whatever it takes to win. Because the consequences of losing are unacceptable."

It was a long lesson.

* * *

**A/N: **And there you have it. Enjoyed it? Loved it? Hated it? Tell me and my undying puzzlement over what your review is supposed to mean to me is your reward.


	17. Fast forward

Fast forward

**A/N: **_So 'Harry with Voldemort's memories' is a fairly well-known, if not so common story line. Attempting to actually write a full fic based on this idea is hilariously hard. The few that have tried have had varying degrees of success for two reasons; first, for a major villain, Voldemort doesn't have the best-documented past out there. We know of three main timelines in Riddle's life pre-series: his childhood, his return to Britain to apply for the Defence Professor's position and what he was doing in the seventies. Beyond that, nothing. The mid-late fourties to the late fifties are a blank canvas, as are the sixties and most of the seventies. We have no idea where he went, what he did and how he did it before books five to seven. Even during the HP series itself, the amount of attention paid to Voldemort as a main antagonist is staggeringly low. How did he subvert the ministry of magic? How did he manage to learn how to fly? Why does he look like a humanoid snake? Why did Bellatrix's death piss the ever-lofty Dark Lord off so much? Lots of questions, few answers. _

_Then you have the second issue, namely identity. How does Harry handle having sixty years' worth of memories before he's even out of puberty? Does it affect him much and, if so, to what degree? It's the kind of premise that buggers character development with a pineapple grenade – is he Harry? Is he a saner Tom Riddle? Is he just Lord Voldemort? How does this affect the storyline? Does he stay a Gryffindor? If so, why? How does he react to Dumbledore? What about the Golden Trio as a whole? What changes? What stays the same? Harry with Riddle's knowledge and perspective, of events is an extremely hard idea to take on. _

_This is a simple introduction to what would be my take on the subject: Harry's horcrux leaks memories into his head while he's asleep. When he wakes up, he remembers everything that happened in Riddle's life. It does so from a very early age – Harry's trip to the zoo marks the point where he's fully absorbed all of Riddle's memories, which means that he enters Hogwarts remembering Riddle's life and ideas about, well, everything up until Halloween 1981. I could not write a full fic for something as mind-bogglingly complex as this for a while, purely because Voldemort's motivations and observations are murky subjects in canon. We know of psycho Voldemort, but we get to see remarkably little of his Slytherin side. _

_Still, the premise is cool, the idea interesting and the damn urge to write didn't leave me alone, so enjoy! I certainly did._

* * *

The first thing Harry remembered was the cold. Wherever his memories were taking him, it was to a cold place. No sights, sounds or smells. Just the feeling of cold.

The second thing Harry remembered was the dark. It had texture to it-there were objects, things people lurking in the gloom beyond his field of vision. He could see the outline of things and feel the cold, but he couldn't understand.

The third thing Harry remembered was the silence. That, too, had texture to it. There never was any such thing as complete silence, after all. The distant _thump, thump, thump_ of machines toiling away in the dark cold, the sound of shuffling and bustling people outside, the echoes of life going on.

The fourth and final thing Harry remembered was the smell. More accurately, the stink. Stale water in a dirty basin. Warm food in a cracked wooden bowl. Children with poor hygiene and worse soap. London streets full of odd people, old buildings, rotting wood. Aged leather. New books. Writing ink. Petrol fumes. Grease. Smoke. Industry.

He remembered it all – the darkness, the fear, the misery and despair crowding out a childhood. Words, names, shapes and events came and went, bringing and taking feelings, emotions and thoughts with them. Thirties London from the perspective of a lone orphan.

Harry screamed. This was too much for a three-year-old to bear.

* * *

Harry was a freak. That much his relatives had gotten right. From the age of three onwards, he could read, write and talk like an adult. He never played games with the other children. Never engaged with any kids less than ten years older than he was, as a matter of fact. He got perfect grades in all his classes-Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, History, French, Spanish, none of them posed much of a challenge to him. He spent most of his time ensconced in the library of the grammar school across the road from his own, reading up on things that were easily considered university material.

At home, he did his chores and lived in his cupboard with nary a complaint. He cooked for the Dursleys and for himself, took care of the house and left for school early in the morning without saying a word.

His teachers loved him. A charmer, they claimed. Would be a right lady killer in a few years, he would. Harry just smiled when he heard them talking about him as if he weren't there.

At night, though, things were different. He would wake up, screaming and swearing like a sailor before dropping back to sleep as if nothing'd happened. Three in the morning, regular as clockwork, Vernon, Petunia and Dudley would hear the moans of the Freak coming from his cubby hole coalescing into a blood-curdling shriek before stopping as abruptly as it started.

Sometimes, he'd watch the telly with Dudley only to excuse himself when old documentaries came on. Life in World War 2 Britain made him scowl. Old news reels, combat footage-anything from that period left him upset and angry. The Dursleys didn't care. Just another freaky thing their Freak of a nephew did sometimes, nothing a few extra chores couldn't cure. Dudley just stayed the hell away from him when Harry was in one of _those_ moods.

Harry was an odd child. As much as the teachers loved him, his behaviour often puzzled them, almost as much as the behaviour of the kids around him did. When he entered a room with other children, they went quiet and looked at him, searching, assessing. They never explained it to the teachers because, well, it just didn't make sense to the adults they'd told about the weird kid that felt off. The teachers didn't really mind. Having Harry around meant a room full of quiet kids? Could I borrow him for my arts class please? So he was odd and probably had a bad family life. Boohoo. Martin Miggs in the grade above Harry had a father in jail and a mum who drooled on herself in hospital. So what?

Thing was, Harry had a secret, one he kept as close to his heart as he dared. By day, he was Harry Potter, weird kid with more brains than the entire school. By night, he dreamed that he was Tom Riddle, orphan-boy turned Dark Wizard. Every night that passed in dream-time was roughly equivalent to a week or even a month's worth of Riddle's life. Come daybreak, Harry'd remember everything of that time-Wool's orphanage, 30's London, magic, Hogwarts, World War 2, all of it. He saw Riddle's life. He _lived_ Riddle's life. Every thought that passed through his head, every action he took, every person he charmed, bribed or cajoled into joining him on his quest to change the world to fit his own image, Harry remembered all of it. Hence why he made breakfast for the Dursleys early in the morning, packed their portions into the fridge and ate his fair share en route to school. It was easier to think, to digest what he'd seen alone and with the space to let his mind wander.

It was hard, reconciling his dream-life with the harsh reality of eighties Britain. So much had changed since then that there was blessedly little Riddle would have recognised on sight. But what little there was didn't inspire confidence in Harry that his dream life was just that, a dream. Take magnolia crescent, for example. Riddle would never have been comfortable with how quiet and isolated it was. There were few people, many cars and houses that were often less than 20 years old. But there was one thing Riddle would have been familiar with, and that was Arabella Figg. Riddle remembered the Figgs from Hogwarts. Paracelsus Figg and Madeleine Herod had both been Hufflepuff prefects in Riddle's time, old blood familiar breeders going back to the days of King George the third. So inbred that all of their children were squibs, but quite nice otherwise. And there was their daughter, sitting in the middle of a muggle suburb, raising kneazles in public. And they were kneazles-they were incredibly intelligent, sneaky as all hell and talked to you without saying a word. Like cats but, well, more _magical_.

These little details made Harry fearful. Riddle had become part of a community that treated other people with the same general disregard that the Dursleys treated him with. They were inconsiderate, stupid and incredibly dangerous morons that antagonised and discriminated wherever they went. Riddle had been quite bright. A bit ruthless and with the ethical & moral standards of the starving orphan he was, but smart enough and driven enough to make something out of himself, magic or no magic. The magical world had gone out of its way to warp and twist the boy into something Harry was scared of. He'd finished remembering Riddle's Hogwarts years at the age of six. Six was a bit young to remember what it felt like to murder someone in cold blood. It was definitely too young to handle knowing how to make a horcrux.

And that was only the start. Riddle'd securely stashed his horcrux away and then taken on the life of a magical treasure hunter. Borgin & Burke's bankrolled a plundering spree the likes of which had rarely been seen outside of Goblin rebellions as Riddle criss-crossed war-torn Europe in the search of magical artifacts to steal, cajole, threaten or kill out of the refugees fleeing before the Red Army and the increasingly vicious Nazi Wehrmacht.

Riddle combed over wizarding settlements burned to the ground, mass graves full with the putrid bodies of the recently dead, explored abandoned magical hospitals, schools and villas so damaged that their extension charms and warding structures had collapsed in on themselves. He fought Grindelwald's minions one day, magical special forces the next and slaughtered any who dared cross his path with a ruthless efficiency that had Harry begging for the dreams to _end_. And every morning, Harry'd wake up knowing what spells were used, how they were used, when to use them and to what effect. He fidgeted with his clothes as Riddle'd done when checking for blood splatters. The cries of the baby over in number two left him reaching for his wand, the in-grained instincts of a man that killed all who saw him telling him to find the survivors and go over their corpses in case they'd taken some valuables with them.

The worst nightmare Harry'd ever had, though, was undoubtedly the one he'd had on Halloween 1987. That was the night where, as Riddle, he'd come across Auschwitz.

The Germans had still been there. The Jews, the criminals, the _zigeuner_, the prisoners of war... All there, just as in the history books. That had been the most profitable day in Riddle's career. A literal ton or two of magical artifacts, from disabled portkeys to magical watches to shrunken broomsticks to wands, all in mint condition, a treasure trove of artisanship from some of the best enchanters eastern Europe had had to offer before the war, all sitting there in a small barnhouse just off the main camp. Riddle'd kept the lot. Out of curiosity, he set out to find where they'd all come from. Getting into the records office was easy for him. Turned out that most of the wizards that'd been captured by Grindelwald had had their magic bound and were turned over to the Nazis for disposal. The barn was full of the items that'd escaped Grindelwald's forces' notice but not the notice of the camp authorities.

He hadn't gone to school that day. He'd been too busy throwing up and crying over the downstairs toilet to do anything much other than curse the day he'd been born. There was a big difference between seeing the pictures in a book & reading about the concentration camps and actually remembering _everything_ about stumbling upon one and walking through it. For one thing, the history books rarely acknowledged the fact that tens of thousands of humans purposefully being starved to death in a frozen, man-made hell stank even worse than the sickly sweet smoke given off by the nearby ovens. It'd been enough to unsettle even Tom Marvolo Riddle and cut his little jaunt through Auschwitz short.

Afterwards, the nightmares got better. Sure, Riddle still traipsed through Europe, taking advantage of the confusion and chaos in the magical part that only found out what was happening when a bunch of tanks charged through their dwellings and planes dive-bombed the survivors out into the path of the retreating Nazi columns, but nothing Riddle'd seen or done since Auschwitz compared to the sheer horror of that place.

Through it all, Harry kept up the facade of a smiling, odd little boy. It was hard.

* * *

He was ten when Riddle's version of the seventies hit. Tom had done a lot in his life by that point. He'd finished stashing his horcruxes, travelled the world looking for magical treasure and consequentially ended up touring every warzone of the post-WW2 period (Harry could, by that stage, speak a dozen languages and point out major battles on a map that few outside of certain specialist circles even remembered taking place) and had finalised his claim on the title of Dark Lord. Then, after a decade's leave of absence, he'd returned to the shores of Britain.

1971 marked the debut of the Death Eaters, Voldemort's shock troops. The logic behind Riddle's decision to place the heirs of three-quarters of magical Britain's ancient Houses in direct conflict with the rest of the wizarding world was as devious as the man himself;

Riddle wanted magical Britain. He wanted every aspect of wizarding Britain to be his in both name and fact. He reasoned that, if the traditional power structure in place survived, it'd threaten his eventual ascension far more than if he just tore it down and built something more relevant to his concept of what the magical world would look like if he lead it. So he turned to the children of the people he'd gone to school with and started mushrooming them with militant pureblood ideology.

The reason behind this was simple-magical houses were hereditary. If you killed off the heirs of magical houses, focusing especially on those that held trades' titles that granted them exclusive controls over key industries, positions in the ministry & the wizengamot, free-hold leases on magical settlements and the holders of wizarding Britain's key private libraries, then _you_ could claim their titles, their leases, their positions and magical knowledge as spoils of war. Once the heirs were gone and you were the direct cause of it, then right of conquest came into effect and the conqueror inherited everything-knowledge of how & what magics went into bloodline attributes, revenue sources, political influence, businesses, the lot.

However, achieving this was tricky. You had to be the one _directly_ responsible for the extinction of the House in question. If you were ordered to kill off a family line, it was your Lord that got everything. And if you happened to be the last scion of your house and you died in the service of your Lord, then your Lord inherited everything you left behind. If your Lord died and left no heirs, then right of conquest applied to his vanquisher-including his claim on you. And if your Lord acted in the service of others, no matter how tacit the service or support was, then the issue was up in the air until one of the main players, be it your Lord or someone else, emerged victorious over the corpses of his erstwhile benefactors.

Riddle's answer to this problem came with the Death Eaters. By subjugating the heirs of Ancient & Noble Houses to his will and having them fight the light side of the House structure, any pureblood family they drove to extinction gave Riddle the financing and perks he needed to recruit more Death Eaters. His plan was simply to have the purebloods fight each other to extinction and use the resulting influx of resources to build his own nation. The trade-off lay in the rhetoric; Riddle was a muggle-raised half-blood, meaning that he shared the same relationship with the traditionalist purebloods he was looking to lead that _mullato_s shared with the people that governed apartheid South Africa. Survive and thrive in Slytherin he might have, but declaring himself the true leader of that bunch of racist morons would have been suicide, since those who knew who Riddle was and where he'd come from wouldn't fail to warn their children and grand-children about the 'jumped-up half-blood who thinks he's better than us'.

Enter Lord Voldemort. Dark Magic, check. Immortality, check. Knowledge from beyond mortal ken, check. Scary disfigurements and abilities, check. Cliche villain, check. He ticked all the 'Dark Lord' boxes in the checklist. He had a plan, a plan that would see the mudbloods subjugated and servicing their betters come yuletide season. He was every inch the Dark leader so many generations of Slytherins'd openly confessed to fantasising about. Tom Riddle was not a good name to go by in wizarding Britain. Lord Voldemort, on the other hand, was the talk of the town.

And while Voldemort led his troops around, destroying pureblood enclaves left & right and throwing in the odd isolated muggle country estate to keep the minions from noticing the slight discrepancy between what Voldemort talked about and who Riddle actually targeted, Tom Riddle went around the magical creature communities, drumming up support in his fight for magical creatures' rights.

It was a beautiful plan that worked to perfection. Many of the old houses on both sides died out as attack and counter-attack took their toll. Dumbledore was being played like a fiddle and not even noticing it, assembling a large number of light-side heavyweights in one place and stopping them from using lethal force. In the privacy of his own head, Riddle'd dubbed battles with the Order of the Phoenix a 'turkey shoot'. The ministry, as haplessly corrupt as ever, was the first to fall, corrupted from the inside out as soon as Lucius Malfoy got his little mitts on Daddy's gold and Narcissa's tits.

Truly, the seventies had been a beautiful time for Tom Riddle. His Voldemort persona was well-established after twenty years of subtle introductions, his horcruxes were safe and, miracle of all miracles, the purebloods got stupider as they grew older.

Harry found himself relaxing during that time. Sure, there was blood & gore every night he went to sleep, but he'd lived through worse dreams than watching an eerily familiar green light kill someone as surely as if Death itself had flicked their switch which, if Riddle's research into the _avada_ family of spells was accurate, wasn't as far from the truth as that. He also got to meet his parents through Tom Riddle, who'd met them at a Ministry Ball as he was out scoping for potential admissions into the post-Death Eater era of his reign. Apparently, he'd really liked Harry's mother, enough to consider having her as a 'muggle-magical relations advisor' after the war. Harry wondered about that, sometimes. Even with the memories, Harry felt confused at Riddle's evaluation of her. What made him think Lily Potter nee Evans would make a brilliant Dark Witch? She was no Bellatrix, a woman Riddle'd been intimately familiar with much to Harry's confused disgust. James Potter, on the other hand, was near the top of Riddle's 'to kill' list. Spiking a man's drink with an amortentia keyed to the ministry of magic just screamed Pureblood levels of stupidity.

Then came the prophecy. Riddle'd known it was incomplete, but that was not enough to discourage him from trying to prevent it from coming to pass. Prophecies weren't something you could ignore. He'd heeded his fair share of them, having used them to predict where and when war would rear its ugly & profitable head and he had yet to come across one that was left unfulfilled. And since it'd found such a convoluted way to his feet, he knew that, at the very least, the Dark Lord Voldemort would have to face it. And since _he_ was the Dark Lord Voldemort, well...

And thus, the night before his cousin's birthday outing, little Harry Potter got to dream about his parents' deaths. He remembered Peter Pettigrew (aka 'cannon fodder') give him the secret. He remembered Riddle, his dream self, raise his wand and blow up the Godric's Hollow entranceway. He remembered the panicked determination on his father's face as the two tore through the ground floor walls like tissue paper, the laws of physics shattered by raging magics. He remembered the look on his father's face as his yew wand made two jabs and green light hit him dead on. He remembered tearing his way through the protective wards & enchantments desperately fighting to keep him from ascending the stairs. He remembered confronting his mother. He remembered Riddle killing his mother with a twinge of regret.

And, finally, he remembered Riddle gazing down at him. He remembered drawing back his wand. He remembered firing off his favourite curse. Then, he remembered no more.

At midnight, Harry Potter awoke, drenched in sweat. The Dursleys, having lived with his screaming episodes for most of Harry's life, didn't even notice. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see the reptilian scales of Riddle's disguise coating his skin. He sighed in relief as he caught sight of the veins running between his hand bones. He was not a monster. He was Harry Potter. Not Tom Riddle. Not Lord Voldemort. He hadn't killed his parents. He hadn't killed all those people. He just remembered it, as much a victim as his parents had been. Not a killer, a victim.

He fell into a dreamless sleep for the first time in seven years.


	18. The Chamaeleon

So I've been thinking a lot about the standard tropes in the HP community. Don't know why, they're, well, tropes for a reason. But I find myself compelled to write my take on them sometimes, which doesn't make any kind of actual sense... but hey, it's my brain! Ain't makin' sense to me, yet I am compelled to obey the neurons. They are, after all, in charge. So I write them. Here's another.

This is a writing feature that pops up occasionally-Harry the metamorphmagus. It's almost a standard addition when you write a super!Harry, really, but is rarely ever fleshed out. Think about it, if you could be anything or anyone, who would you choose to be? And how would you remember being yourself? There are writers that _have_ done it incredibly well (don't ask me who, though). The Mad Mad Reviewer did have great ideas about how being a metamorphmagus affects relationships in _Jamie Evans and Fate's Fool/Bitch_ and a number of fics by other authors deal with the consequences of the existence of metamorphmagic fairly well too. Anyway, this is my take on how being a metamorphmagus affects Harry. And time turners, because what the hell, why not.

Small addendum – I had to look up the HP wiki for the Gryffindor girl's contingent and guess what I found? Extra girls! So I thought okay and added them to this story as a peripheral reference. You can disregard them as they have little to no bearing on the actual plot (big surprise), but damn I had no idea. Strange, the things you find when hitting up a wiki are.

* * *

She remembered a time where she was just a boy called Harry Potter. Harry Potter did normal things-went to school, learned things, went home, cooked dinner, ate dinner, did his chores and slept on a bed in a cupboard. That had been Harry's normal life. Harry Potter was a small boy who looked like he didn't eat much. Not because his relatives underfed him or beat him. Expecting a starving, bleeding six-year-old to cook food, wash the floor, clean the rooms and generally take care of things didn't exactly work, after all. He was given the same sized portions as Dudley and, with Harry getting smaller and smaller as time went on, Petunia kept increasing his portion sizes. He'd eat everything, just like Dudley. He'd have second helpings, extra dessert, take a large lunchbox filled with goodies to school with him, just like Dudley. But that didn't help. Harry kept looking like a scrawny waif while Dudley seemed to inflate much like his father had. The Dursleys worried about how this made them look in front of the neighbours, but little did they know that Harry actually ate even more when he did the odd chore for the neighbours than he did at the Dursleys'. He just didn't get fat, which was, in his mind, the reason why the Dursleys disliked him.

Then came the day Petunia shaved Harry's hair. It was a normal thing for Petunia to do. Harry's hair tended towards being more of a chaotic mess whenever it grew beyond the one-inch mark and got less & less manageable as time went on. It drove Petunia up the wall. Her solution? Shave Harry's head once every month. And it worked for Harry and Petunia-Harry didn't have to bother with shampoo and Petunia didn't end up with barbers going into a screaming fit whenever she walked into their shop with Potter in tow.

But Harry was at the age where boring things should be avoided at all costs. He didn't mind cooking and cleaning since he'd been doing it for so long that it was just one of those things, but he was intensely peculiar about what he chose to pay attention too. Learning was exciting, as were exams. He found those fun to do if only for the pained look on Dudley's face. Gym class? No thanks, running and playing with balls was boring, so he avoided it as much as he could. Clothes? His uniform was boring and way too big for him, so he modified it in a myriad interesting little ways. Bright colours and spandex were great additions and, since he dressed himself in the morning, he got away with it. Not like the teachers cared either way. So the little boy that did well in their classes dressed like a cartoon character every so often. Did that impact his grades? No? Then so what?

And the day Petunia approached him with a hair clipper as was her custom, Harry unexpectedly thought about how _boring_ having the same hairstyle over and over again was-and found himself wearing a blonde bee-hive hairdo that looked exactly like his aunt's. _Her_ aunt's actually-he'd turned into a perfect miniature replica of Petunia Evans-Dursley.

Harry never heard the end of _that_ one.

It took him hours to change back, concentrating _really hard_ on what he'd looked like in the mirror that morning. The next day, he looked at Dudley and focused on what Dudley looked like the same way he'd focused on himself the night before. And lo, he looked just like Dudley. Well, he had Dudley's face and portulence, but his... other... bits were still recognisably his when he struggled to peer over his cousin's distended belly. He needed to work on that.

And thus began Harry's venture into exploring the mysteries of the human body. That's where he discovered the differences between men & women (eugh), boys & girls (eww) and kids & adults. It took a while, but eventually he managed to accomplish a most difficult feat-he turned into an adult female. One with red hair, green eyes and a bone structure he definitely didn't remember thinking about. Petunia's reaction was hilarious when he showed her. Harry never thought that he'd ever see his aunt scream & faint like that. It became his favourite form from then on out.

By the time the Hogwarts letters came, it only took a minimal amount of effort to turn into someone else, though trying to turn into Hagrid had been a mistake. He'd never felt quite as famished after attempting to turn into someone else than after that trick. Nobody found out, of course-this wasn't a trick he wanted to advertise, thank you. Accidental magic and all that rot.

The year was pretty standard, really, if you didn't take into account the excitement of the troll, the failed duel, his first and last quidditch game ever (malfunctioning broom, his/her ass. He had enough balancing issues without being told to hang onto a stick doing a hundred miles an hour and dodge heavy wooden balls & crazy bastards in the middle of fucking winter), the third floor corridor and that weird-ass Quirrel thing.

Second year was weird, what with the basilisk and everything. That's when he took to disguising himself as a muggleborn firstie and taking random classes incognito. The professors never noticed that there was one extra person in the room as long as everyone was present & accounted for, so when he wanted to get away from things, he'd turned into Nicky the hyper muggleborn boy and just sit at the back of the class he/she was interested in. Hermione never noticed anything, being too busy in the library and Ron was, well, Ron. He didn't really notice anything that wasn't pertinent to either classes or food.

And then came third year.

* * *

Time travel was _wild_. Hermione only got the time turner because her classes were interfering with each other. Hell, she'd never even _heard_ of time travel being possible before. Okay, so there was the whole _interfering with the time stream_ thing McGonnagall had warned her about, but wow! She could pretend to be a Time Lord! Yay! So the toilets had to fill in for the TARDIS, so what? This was just too great. Plus, she watched enough science fiction shows over the summer to understand the dangers. _She_ was responsible enough to handle it.

Though the thought of Draco Malfoy loose in time if not space was enough to send shudders down her spine, the mere fact that _here_ lay conclusive proof that time travel was possible, even easy for wizards & witches with the right devices, changed _everything_. She wondered briefly on what the laws of conservation of energy had to say on the subject, though. Her time turner was rated for safe travel for up to 24 hours into the past each time. Did that mean that, theoretically, she could travel back 24 hours, wait a few minutes, turn back another 24 hours, then repeat the procedure again & again & again? How far back could she theoretically go? Oh, she wouldn't play with time that way (there was no way back except the hard way, after all), but the sheer number of _possibilities_-oh, yes! This called for more research! And she had, hah, the time to do it now too.

But there was a puzzling thing happening in her classes. There were at least four girls, all Gryffindors, all in her year, that she'd never even heard of attending her classes. This wasn't, strictly speaking, possible. She knew Parvati, Lavender, Fay, that weird girl Fay hung out with and Kell the crazy bitch intimately. She also knew that there were no other quarters allocated to the third year girl's contingent in Gryffindor outside of those she spent her time in, so where were all these extra female Gryffindors coming from?

She decided to wait until after runes class to confront one, a girl Babbling'd called Sheila McLane. She looked remarkably like Daphne Greengrass, except with black hair and-wait, were those _her_ eyes? What the hell was going on here?

"Hey, you! McLane! Wait up!" She demanded imperiously. The girl stiffened and turned to find an interested looking Hermione bearing down on her. Sheila winced. This was _not_ good. Minerva'd cautioned Harry not to let anyone know about the time turner she'd given to him. It would help in case Sirius Black made a move. She turned and ran. "Heyheyhey!" Hermione shouted, running after the girl.

Sheila turned a corner. Hermione heard a startled squeal before turning a corner to find a young Gryffindor firstie lying on the ground and rubbing her shoulder. Hermione's big-sister instincts kicked in. Future-her'd doubtlessly be around a corner, catching Sheila or whoever this was from behind. Best not to interfere right then & there.

"Hello. Are you okay?" She asked, crouching over the little girl. The girl looked at Hermione nervously, hoping against hope that her best friend'd buy the deception. "Here, let me help you up." She said, grasping the little girl's hand and checking the girl for bruises. If there were any, she'd make Sheila pay. Nope, everything looked alright, no bruises, ripped robes or anything. Though the robes were too big, they were still okay... Wait. The uniform was... too... big. Hermione drew her wand. "Hello Sheila." She said. "We're going to have a little talk. And you are going to tell me exactly. Who. You. Are."

"Okay." Sheila/Harry squeaked, frantically trying to think of a way out of this. There wasn't one.

* * *

Sheila McLane, Agnes Coote, Delilah Murphysdottir, Doris Bullhorn, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were in the second floor bathroom. In other words, there were two people sitting on a bench in Moaning Myrtle's ectoplasmic stomping grounds.

"So you're a metamorphmagus, Harry?"

"What's a 'metamorphmagawhatsit' again, Hermione?" 'Sheila' asked.

Hermione huffed. "It's a wizard or a witch that can change their appearance at will. Honestly Harry, did you ever wonder?"

"Uhh, no." The girl (_Harry damnit! The boy, Hermione!_) scratched his/her head in a familiar way before shrugging. "I just assumed it was one of those boy-who-lived things."

"Things?"

"You know, like the tales where I am a phoenix animagus, or the one where I'm a werewolf or the weird book about me secretly being a mad scientist bent on world domination..." He/she shrugged. "I just thought that at least one had to be true, so why not one where I'm a human chamaeleon?"

"But..." Hermione shook her head. "They're stories, Harry. _Fairy tales_, bed-time stories for purebloods! This... it's real, Harry. Since when can you do this?"

Sheila shrugged. "Since I was little. 'Bout five, six years now."

"And why didn't you tell me? Or anyone else, really?"

"Well, Dumbledore did kind of find out after the whole mirror incident. Apart from that, nobody ever asked."

"What, so I should have asked 'Harry, can you shift your shape at will' before you told me that you could?"

Sheila fidgeted with the edge of her robes. "Well... yes?"

Hermione laughed. "You're a prat, you know that?"

"Well, a prat_ess_ right now, to be precise. So, when were you going to tell me that you could travel time, Hermione?" Sheila asked with a grin.

Hermione smirked. "You never _asked_, 'Sheila'."

* * *

It was the little things that gave it away after the fact.

Harry's height, for instance. He shifted between being five foot three and five foot five seemingly at random. His hair was still its crazy spiky self, but seemed to shift whenever he got overly emotional. It didn't change colours or anything that blatant. Instead, the spikes surreptitiously switched position. Hermione was sure that if she got Harry in front of a video camera for a few hours and watched the video on fast forward that she'd see the spikes shift in much the same way starfish moved in documentaries. Then, there were his eyes. The hues cycled depending on the class he was in. Bright green in potions, dull green in transfiguration, green speckled with random colours in charms class, dark green in history... Hermione could probably chart the amount of attention Harry paid to his classes by the shift in colour in his eyes. Now that she knew the secret, it was beyond obvious. How had nobody put the clues together before?

Then Hermione paid attention to the girl forms. They were obviously an amalgamation of all the girls attending Hogwarts that came into contact with Harry – Doris Bullhorn, overall Millicent with Ginny and Lavender thrown in. Agnes Coote, Hermione's hair done in blonde with a smaller version of Katie Bell's body. Delilah Murphysdottir was Luna with Susan Bones's face and Tracy Davis's eyes. And Sheila, of course. But what struck Hermione as odd was _how well_ Harry pulled off being, well, _girly_. The stances, the way he/she carried himself in girl forms, the way the different girls all dressed... It was more than a bit freakish to Hermione. And where did the scars go? Another mystery, that.

They decided to time-turn together. They had the same schedule, after all, and two Gryffindor girls going to class attracted less attention than a lone Gryffie girl did. They ate together, studied together (and with Ron when Harry was Harry) and generally did everything together. She would go through an entire day with Harry in the classes they shared with Ron, turn back to the previous night, sleep in random abandoned classrooms, wake up and go to classes again with none the wiser. Harry'd spend a day as himself, then Doris'd attend classes with Hermione, followed by Agnes sitting on the other side of the room, then Delilah'd walk into the Great Hall to drag past Hermione away from Harry & Ron for arithmancy classes while present Hermione took her place and Sheila would engage in debates over runic structures with Hermione during practical sessions. It was all very convoluted and chaotic, but given that the universe still existed, it would all work out in the future.

In the end, after one or two days's worth of studies, the two'd start on the next day. Hermione noticed after a month of this schedule with Harry that, well, Harry was so good at being girly because, for every day that Harry went as Harry, Harry spent two-three extra days as a girl. He was gradually becoming a she. That revelation _blew her mind_.

* * *

"Harry?" Ron asked, one night in the common room as the trio were studying up on dementors. That last match'd been way too close for comfort. "Harry?" He asked again, looking at his quietly reading friend. "Harry!" Nope, still nothing. Ron grumbled as he went back to working on the grimoire in his hands. What was up with his friend?

Hermione leaned in close. "Psst, Delilah!" she whispered.

Harry started and looked up from his book on the history of Azkaban. "Yes Hermione?" He asked in a rather feminine voice, forgetting for a moment where he was. Ron jerked and looked around for the girl he'd just heard.

"You're being rude." She said, pointing at Ron.

"Really?" he asked, clearing his throat to get his male voice back. "Sorry mate, what was it?"

As Ron & Harry started talking, Hermione frowned. She'd heard of dissociative identities before. She needed to talk to her friend about this.

* * *

"I think you should give it a break, Harry."

"What?" Sheila asked as she looked up from her homework. "Why?"

"This whole thing-you changing identities at will. It's dangerous."

"What, like, Troll dangerous? Dementor dangerous? Time travel dangerous?" Sheila asked, non-plussed.

"No, but it's bad for you!" Hermione wailed. "Think about it! How long do you spend as someone else every week, Harry?"

"You mean for seven days at a time or week-week?" Sheila asked.

"A week of classes. Five working days, two free ones." She said.

"Uh... well... maybe five out of every twenty-eight?"

"Exactly! Now-what, twenty-eight?"

"Well, you know Nicholas Dolton?"

"Second-year Gryffindor? Muggleborn, isn't seen much outside of cl-... _you didn't_!" She exclaimed, shocked. How the hell had Harry pulled that one off _wthout a time turner_? And under her very nose?

" Well, last year I got the schedule off Colin Creevey and none of the classes were at the same time as ours, so I thought... well, why not?"

"But that's... it's... _eurrgh_!" She calmed herself. "Look, this is dangerous. Your name is Harry James Potter. You're friends with me and Ron. You _could_ play quidditch if you wanted to, but you choose to just go flying around instead. You've got okay grades, but we're working on that. You have horrible relatives, funky hair and questionable dress sense."

"Okay. Yeah, that's me."

"But _is it_? Honest answer, when was the last time you thought of yourself as Harry james Potter?"

"..." Harry looked at Hermione nervously. "... A while."

"_How long is a while?_" she asked venomously.

Sheila didn't answer.

"Ah." This was worse than Hermione'd thought. "Now do you get why this is dangerous? Doris, Sheila, Agnes, little Nicky-they're not you, Harry. You made them up."

"They're as real as I am, Hermione."

"No, they're not. You were _born_ into reality, Harry. They were _imagined_ into it. Big difference."

"But what if I don't want to be Harry? What if I don't want to be a boy hero that gets hunted by escaped murderers? What if I don't want to face monsters and creatures that shouldn't exist? Harry has to worry about these things. All Agnes worries about is making friends and getting decent grades. All Nicky worries about is discovering magic and that cute Weasley girl in his year. I can finally, _finally_ live life the way I want to Hermione. But I can't do it as Harry Potter. Harry just wants to be Harry, but nobody'll let him be the kid he is. The others? No problem! They're not celebrities. They're not heroes. They're _people_. The only thing expected of them is homework, nothing more, nothing less." Harry sighed. "So tell me, Hermione, what should I do? I want a _life_. I want to _live_. Harry Potter can't do that. The others can... Harry Potter just wants to live. So what if he has to be someone else to achieve that?" Sheila said, looking at Hermione with teary eyes. "I don't want to _stop_."

"I'm not saying you should stop Harry." Hermione pointed out. "I just don't want to lose _you_. You're my friend. I don't want to lose my friend, Harry."

"As if that'd happen. No matter who I am, you're still my friend."

Sheila and Hermione hugged. "Just promise that you'll still be Harry. I'm okay with Just Harry, as long as it's you in there."

"Okay, Hermione." The hug grew tighter. "I promise."

* * *

Hermione sipped at the anti-ageing potion Poppy gave her. "Thanks Poppy."

"All in a day's work, Granger." The mediwitch said absently whilst jotting down notes on a ledger.

"Say, has Harry taken his?" She asked innocently. Madame Pomphrey looked up from her work and smiled at the girl. Figured it out, had she?

"Yes, but he doesn't take as many as you do. Why do you ask?" She questioned. Normally, client-patient confidentiality applied here, but the girl was just wondering about her friend. Poppy didn't mind bending the rules, seeing as Granger'd simply ask Potter for information anyway-and the boy would give it.

Hermione frowned. Harry was using his time turner far more than Hermione was, she knew that. So how come his Harry form didn't get noticeably older without the influence of the potion? Well, who better to ask than-"Just curious. Say Poppy?"

"Yes?"

"How do metamorphs age?" Hermione prayed that the woman didn't make the connection right then & there. It was a risk, but given the general obliviousness of elder wizards & witches, it was a calculated one.

"Well, that's a tricky one. Read it in a book, have you?"

"_Magical medical mysteries, _by Dr Stephane Vincent Etrange."

"Well, it's pretty much as the book posits. Metamorphmagi don't _age_ in the conventional sense. Their physiology repairs any cellular damage as soon as it occurs instinctively. About the only real way of telling an adult metamorph from another adult metamorph, regardless of age, is through their demonstrated abilities."

"How so?"

"The older they get, the better they get at changing into other people."

"So how long can they live?"

"Oh, now there's the meat of the mystery, you see. There are so few metamorphmagi that want to be found or stay found that there's next to no data on them. The general theory is that they can live for a few thousand years, depending on how good they are at manipulating magic. Of course, if they lose control over the magic powering their bodies, they pretty much die instantly. Rather messily too if the theory's right."

Hermione paled. "Really? If they lose control of their magic, they die?" This could be bad. Harry tended towards having excellent control over his magic, but they were in danger so often that that was the kind of thing that stood a good chance of going out of the window at any moment. Like if Harry were to, say, encounter a Dementor once too often and lose control, then it was poof, goodbye best friend of Hermione & Ron, hello chunky red paint covering the walls.

"Oh, yes, but don't worry. That kind of loss of control is mostly due to massive traumatic damage to the metamorphmagus's nervous system. Even if they survive the loss of control, they'll generally die due to the injuries sustained to their brain and/or spinal column in a matter of days."

"Ah, so technically immortal?"

"No dear, the term is functionally immortal. They also have trouble dealing with any form of wizarding transportation, since the translocation magics interface with the same part of their brains that manages appearance. And what brought this line of questioning on exactly? It's not a very common topic in classes..."

Okay, time to think fast. "Just, well, I've got to think of an OWLs project for runes class and I thought I'd start it early." _Please buy it, please buy it, please buy it..._

Pomphrey sniggered. "Well, don't start _too_ early or spend too long thinking about it this year dearie. The anti-ageing potion can have nasty side-effects if taken too often. Honestly, giving fourteen-year-olds time-turners for class. What were Minerva & Albus thinking?" the mediwitch muttered to herself.

Hermione breathed out slowly. The risk'd been a lot more acute than she'd thought, but the information gained was well worth it.

* * *

"_Expecto Patronum!_" Harry screamed again & again, only producing a small shot of silvery mist. This was going nowhere, but he had to keep trying. His/her life was on the line here. Remus sighed silently in the background. He admired the Pronglet's tenacity, he really did, but sometimes it seemed that Harry had trouble with the concept of using a happy memory.

"Okay, that wasn't too bad Harry. You've got the incantation, you've got the right movements down to a fine art, but you _need_ to find a memory that makes you feel _happy_! Not a memory where you were happy or a memory that makes you happy in an artificial way, but one that genuinely makes _you_ happy! Get it?"

"Yes, professor, I do. It's just that I have trouble finding one-" _in this form_. "Wait, I have an idea. Professor Lupin, can you keep a secret?"

The werewolf raised an eyebrow. "Yes, indeed. You wouldn't _believe_ some of the things your father asked me to keep quiet in his time."

"Okay. This doesn't leave this room." He said before transforming into the tall red-headed shape that made him always feel warm & fuzzy when his life went spectacularly tits-up. Remus staggered back as Lily Evans stood before him once more. _I'm okay with Just Harry-_ "_Expecto Patronum!_" BOOM!

A brilliant silver light raced out in waves over the classroom. Out of the mist galloped a silver stag that proceeded to race around the room. "Prongs!" Whispered Remus as the corporeal patronus pranced around the laughing girl he'd last seen in her funeral casket so long ago.

He never noticed the tears rolling down his face.

* * *

"So this is the map the twins gave you?" Ron asked, studying the piece of parchment with an intensity Harry'd rarely seen on his friend's face. Harry nodded, studying the parchment for signs of ghostly apparitions trying to mind-control him. The last thing he needed right then was to end up facing another horror underneath the school.

He checked the parchment again. "Yes, indeed. And it looks okay. Hey, if it tries to possess you, would you mind telling me as soon as possible?"

"Wha-oh, sure mate." Ron said with a muffled laugh. "As if I'd let that happen to me."

"Make sure you do. We've had to deal with two possessions in the last two years. I don't particularly fancy ending up with lucky number three." Ron looked at the parchment. "Hey look, there's Hermione! Hello Hermione." He said, waving at the dot on the map marked H. Granger.

"Ron, it's a map. She can't hear you." Harry said, smiling at his friend's antics.

"Yeah, but it doesn't matter mate. It's Hermione. She can read my mind sometimes, I swear."

"Well, guess that explains why you two argue with each other so much."

"Get off it, you prat. We argue because it's fun."

"You find arguing with Hermione fun? Well, at least we know the Hat put you in the right place." Harry'd always thought that arguing with Hermione was something akin to suicide. She could get very angry very quickly if you did or said something stupid. And Ron _liked_ arguing with his female friend? Jeez, talk about crazy.

"Well, yeah. Imagine, me in Slytherin." The redhead said as he snickered to himself.

"Snape would have had fits, that's for sure." Harry said, distracting Ron from the parchment that showed two dots marked H. Granger sitting in two different rooms. He tapped the map, bringing up the seventh floor, where a lone dot marked A. Coote sat in the old charms classroom. Harry wondered what future-he was up to. Probably studying. He _liked_ the seventh floor. There was almost no-one up there.

"Hey look, there's that Agnes girl in our year. She's a quiet one, she is." Ron said, smiling.

"What?" Harry asked. "Who?"

"You know, Agnes Coote, Gryffie girl in our year, real quiet, almost never see her in class?"

"Never noticed her." Harry said in a neutral voice.

"I think she's cute, you know."

Oh, this couldn't be happening. "C-cute?"

"Well yes! Saw her in the Great Hall a couple of times. She sat across from me and never looked disgusted once! Even you have trouble doing that, mate."

Yippee, change of topic opening! "Well, if you had better table manners, mate..."

"Oi! I'm thirteen, I won't be able to eat like that for long!" Ron huffed in a Hermione-like manner. Honestly, didn't his dark-haired friend ever act like a kid? "Anyway, so she sat across from me a couple of times and, well, her _hair_, mate!"

Oh please god, what had he done? What had he been _thinking_, sitting across from Ronald Bilius Weasley for lunch? Oh, right, he hadn't. Too hungry, no thinky. "Her hair?"

"There was just _so much_ of it!"

"Really."

"Yes! Oh Agnes! Say, do you think Hermione could introduce us?"

No, Hermione'll be too busy cackling like a maniac, you buffoon. "Maybe?"

"Say, where is she on the map? We can go and ask her!" Ron said, snatching the parchment out of Harry's hand and legging it for the door.

"Ron, wait!" Damn, this was bad. He could almost _hear_ Hermione teasing her/him about this for _months_. And with a time turner, a month could be a very long time indeed.

* * *

Lily sat in Remus's office, swinging her legs back & forth across the floor. No wait, this was Harry wearing Lily's body. But the wolf thought it was Lily. The smell was the same, the poise and the voice were the same, even the look she gave things she was curious about was the same. To the wolf, this was Lily, friend to a family that had died with her. The wolf wasn't confused. Confusion is something that killed animals faster than fear did and therefore anathema to the wolf's mind. No, it was curious. What was a dead friend doing in his host's office?

Remus, on the other hand, was _definitely_ confused. How had Harry gotten to _know_ Lily that well? The wife of his best friend had been, not to put too fine a point to it, dead for over twelve years now. Where had Harry learned so much about her that Remus was still wondering about whether this was Harry in disguise or Lily taking polyjuice to look like him? His brain knew that this was Harry and that he'd lucked out by inheriting the metamorphmagic from his grandmother's side of the family, but his heart was torn between scolding Lily for being gone for so long and leaving her son behind and bawling his eyes out over a friend he'd thought long gone, much the same as when Sirius'd turned up after the last full moon.

"Harry?" Remus asked as he entered the room.

"Hm?"

"Can you change back, please?"

The red-head looked down at herself and blushed in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry professor. Forgotten I was wearing something different." She said before morphing back into his Harry form.

Remus groaned. "Thank you. You're almost as bad as James."

"Oh, dad? Really? He was worse?" Harry asked excitedly. "Tell me more professor!"

"Much worse, but no details for today I'm afraid." He stated. "No, today we continue working on your patronus. You can now cast it in pretty much any form you take, which is good, but now we come to the next test." He pointed a wand at the closet behind him. "Now, cast it at a dementor please. _Alohomara_!"

The black cloak swished into existence in front of Harry.

It was a good lesson, even if it did end with professor Lupin being chased around the office by an irate teen launching hexes at him. Yep, definitely took after his mother. James wasn't half as bad when he was angry.

* * *

"Do you know when they'll finish repairing that damn portrait?" Harry asked Neville. "It's been months since the incident, and Sir Cadogan is driving me nuts."

"Uh, no it hasn't Harry. It's been about three-four weeks since Halloween. McGonnagall said something about it being repaired in time for christmas, but nothing else really." Neville said. "Excuse me, Harry, Hermione, I have a study session with Doris in a few minutes. Don't want to be late." He left the common room.

"A study date with Doris, Harry?" Hermione asked amused. "Something you not telling me?"

"Well, in my defence, he's really good in herbology and theoretical potions work." Harry said, blushing. "Nothing's going on otherwise."

"Well, if he kisses you, remember to tell me alright?"

"Hey!"

Neither noticed the black cat animagus form of professor McGonnagall in the background, her sensitive ears pointed straight at the two friends. This was interesting.

* * *

Harry and Hermione arrived in the transfiguration classroom early. Now while it was normally a praiseworthy thing to have students so eager to attend that they regularly turn up ten minutes before everyone else, it gets less so when they travel time in order to get to classes on time. Minerva knew full well that they regularly used time turners for just such a purpose, but generally kept mum when the increased eagerness on Harry Potter's behalf for classes was brought up during his weekly student performance review. Being early was easy when you could literally rewind yourself to the point where you could turn up early, after all. She'd made it very clear to the both of them that, as long as they used the time turners, tardiness was not an excuse that would save them from detention and massive points loss if she caught wind of it.

It was now early february, which made it roughly six months since she'd issued the time turners to two of her favourite children. She'd paid very close attention to the comings and goings of both of them and was, to put not too fine a point to it, not impressed. Using a time turner once a day was alright. Twice a day was okay as long as you didn't overdo it. But, given the supply notices Poppy'd dumped on her desk after christmas, Hermione had steadily increased her time turner usage from twice a day to a possible five times a day between late september and early december. Averaging out at three days for every single one that went by, had it not been for the anti-ageing potion, Hermione Granger would be sixteen years old in appearance by now. As for Harry, well, since coming across some rather strange discussions between the two in november, the deputy headmistress had taken her own time turner out of the headmaster's vault and tried to follow the boy's convoluted jaunt through the timeline. It had been a mistake.

Albus had known that the boy was a metamorphmagus but hadn't bothered to inform Minerva of this. Snape suspected, but didn't follow up on it. So Minerva, expecting to spend at most four days shadowing Harry for every one that went past, had prepared accordingly-five potions a week, rated to decrease the age of the drinker by five days each, for a total of three weeks. By the time christmas arrived, she'd had to restock in Diagon Alley. Harry, Minerva'd found, wasn't just Harry. When he went through time, he assumed a new appearance, a new identity and a new circle of friends every time. He studied with them, talked with them and even played with them. There were the four girls and the Gryffindor firstie that Minerva'd taken a shine to last year, each with their own lives, habits, friends, relatives, everything. The only two things that would've tipped anyone off to the fact that this was Harry Potter was the presence of Hermione most of the time and the use of Hedwig to garner supplies and fake correspondence with people that'd never existed. The end result of this was that Harry Potter, for every day spent as Harry Potter, spent a week as someone else, going through that same day with different people.

He was also the most popular person in school without anyone knowing it. Sheila had friends in Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, thanks to Hermione. How her little cub girls failed to notice the fact that here was another Gryffie they'd never even heard of just appearing out of thin air made Minerva's mind boggle. Doris was pals with Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Agnes, Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Delilah, friends with practically everyone, an even mix of all houses. No wonder Nicky did so well in classes. Poor boy was probably bored stiff by now.

She'd shadowed him very carefully. Wouldn't do to alert him to Minerva's stalking presence, after all. She found, much to her horror, that some of the things he'd done were just insane. He got dressed (and where in Merlin's name had he found those skirts?) attended maybe one or two classes under his chosen form for that particular iteration of the day, talked to a few friends, did some studying and spent the rest of the day in the library-which was full of other Harrys studying and reading up on other things. Then, one or two of them would head down to the Great Hall to eat while the four or five others headed over to the kitchen, where the house elves enthusiastically plied them with food. He was already studying sixth year material (even seventh year, in some cases) and most of his forms had passes to the restricted section granted by the entire faculty-apart from her. He wasn't six months ahead in age. Harry Potter was probably close to three and a half _years_ older than his peers. Minerva was fairly certain that the boy could pass his NEWTS by the time the year was over and gain a mastery purely on the basis of the research he conducted with Hermione in the forms the girl knew about-and the research he did alone with his other forms.

By rights, the universe should have ended. Harry Potter wasn't so much abusing his time-turner as he was twisting the timeline to his own amusement. The damage his actions should be wreaking on reality should have flung the Earth into a completely different dimension by now. And yet, despite Harry interacting with and touching his other forms on a regular basis, the Earth was still very much there and the timeline was still very much okay.

This left Minerva with a decision to make. Harry was a metamorph. Ageing, identity, gender were mutable things to him/her/it. He could assume any guise and pull it off without a hitch. The question is, should she leave Harry to continue doing this or should she step in and stop it? She pondered as she stared at the two friends talking to each other about material that wouldn't be covered for the next year and a half, at the very least. Hermione would have not lasted nearly as long doing what she did if it weren't for her companion travelling time with her. Harry... there's a question as to whether he'd still _be _Harry by now if Hermione weren't around to keep him on an even keel. She'd seen unspeakables operating on Harry's schedule keel over and join the basket cases in St. Mungoes after a month. Potter showed no signs of mental exhaustion despite the past semester having lasted for longer than three years. In fact, he seemed to be thriving, looking better than he'd had in the first two years of his life at Hogwarts. Then again, he had turned the two week vacation period into a three and a half month-long tour all around wizarding Britain...

Minerva shook her head. No, they were doing alright. If they did end up having problems, _then'd_ be the time for the Deputy Headmistress to lay down the law. Until then, Minerva McGonnagall would sit and watch from the sidelines for however long it took.

That _didn't_ mean, however, that she could let such a blatant disregard for the laws of causality pass without comment.

"Alright, you two, settle down." The Professor's icy voice of disapproval rang out. The two students froze. " Now, you and I, my precious little students, are going to have a _talk_. About things that you've been doing. Things I am _not very happy about_." Ah, the look of anticipatory fear in their eyes. It never got old, no matter how many pensieve memories she kept of them.

* * *

Hermione liked Ron. Well, she used to think she loved him, but that had been before the time turner'd dropped into her lap. Before that, she'd been a fourteen-year-old girl and he'd been a thirteen-year-old boy. Now? Well, she hadn't kept track of how old she actually was now. She was at least fifteen, approaching sixteen. Mostly. Probably. Definitely not seventeen yet. It was hard to tell. Still, going after a thirteen-year-old when you were possibly sixteen in your head was a stupid idea.

She still looked much the same as she had when she'd started, but her brain'd matured. Harry had too, though in his case, appearances and even a knowledge of what went on beneath the appearances could be deceptive. Harry was one of those children where one had to look underneath the underneath. In this case, you had to remember that, while Harry _had_ grown as a person, he'd also grown as _different people_. The time turner had turned what would be a clear and shut case of multiple personnality disorder into several different versions of Harry existing at the same time. The first time Harry'd grabbed Sheila and asked her a divinations-related question, Hermione'd had a heart attack. This, right there, was a classic case of a paradox occurring. Yet the world hadn't ended. Sheila'd answered the question, hexed Harry for being a 'grabby bugger' and continued on with her day. Hermione's mind boggled. If she'd tried that with future her, then the world _would_ end, no question about it. Or, at the very least, she'd cease to exist-along with a large portion of England. The answer came, funnily enough, when Hermione'd been with Sheila a few instances of the same day later, when Sheila told her that Harry had 'some nerve, the little git'.

Harry, when he was someone else, was no longer Harry. He was truly _someone else_, a completely separate person. Well, not _completely_ completely, but enough to avoid a paradox when what was technically two instances of the same person existing at the same time interacted with each other. That... was not possible. Except that it had happened.

Cue a subjective month's worth of work into what made time turners tick. The mechanics were fairly straightforward.

Every universe occupied a timestream. This universe is technically unique, exhibiting a distinctive feature in relation to other universes that caused the time stream to shear off from the overarching timeline. Every time there is a possible outcome to something occuring, like an atom veering left instead of right or a coin turning face side up rather than numbers side up, the universe splits into the number of possible potential outcomes. In other words, for every possibility, there is a universe where such a possibility has occured. Considering the choices in breakfast cereal on a supermarket aisle, that makes for a _lot_ of universes that have a single difference to its peers, each with its own time stream. And while these universes branched off from each other, eventually there comes a point where the consequences of that single difference have worked themselves out and a universe becomes identical to another universe, which is the point where the two merge into a single universe occupying a single time stream once again. As a result, the amount of universes branching off is roughly equal to those merging with others, an equilibrium of sorts.

What a time turner does is that it keeps a record of points in the time stream where a universe identical to the one Hermione occupied merged with her own. When you operate a time turner, you go backwards down the time stream and are slotted into the _exact_ time when the merger completed, which identified you as a left-over feature from the previous universe. The enchantments on the time turner then stop you from being forcefully ejected back to your point of origin in the time stream. The actual maths would fry your brain, but that's the basic explanation of how a time turner works mechanically.

Magically, however, a time turner works on perception. Your mere existence in the same universe at the same time as another you _should_ end your existence as you _know_ you cannot exist at the same place at the same time. But the time turner contains enchantments that protect you from the ravages of the space-time continuum as long as you _do not interact with yourself_. If you see yourself, there's always the possibility that you're merely seeing someone that looks like you and your internal paradox is averted. If, however, you meet yourself, greet yourself and touch yourself, you will instinctively know that _this is you and this shouldn't happen_, causing the magics protecting you from scrutiny by the forces that govern the time stream to fail and for reality to reassert itself with a vengeance. Hermione go boom in anti-matter fireworks. Britain go boom with her.

But Harry considers his main identity to be separate from the others. Over the time that he's had his time turner, Harry's made-up forms have created themselves lives that were completely separate from each other and Harry himself in every way possible. Thus, when Harry isn't Harry, he _literally _isn't Harry, just someone who happens to have Harry's memories and the ability to change into other people if they want to. Harry doesn't see himself as being these other people either, no matter that he remembers everything they do up until the previous day. They are not Harry. He is not them. The degree of separation is so intense that little Nicky even joined the Harry Potter Fan Club with Colin! Harry'd _never_ do that. Nicky, on the other hand, hearing about Harry's sacrifices and cool heroics, would.

And this is why Harry could interact with other versions of himself. By not thinking about them as being other, older versions of himself, Harry has circumvented the bugs in the time turner's protective enchantments. His mental health issues saved the universe from Harry himself.

Cue Hermione banging her head against the table in the library one day. Sheila hushed her. Hermione gave her the finger. Stupid Harry, breaking the laws of physics with his Harryness.

* * *

Eventually, though, all good things must come to an end no matter how much time you had on your hands. Buckbeak was due for the chopping block that day. The exams were over. The time turners were on the point of return delivery to the Deputy Headmistress, much to Minerva's relief. This also explained the sudden disappearance of the four Gryffindor third-years and one Gryffindor second-year boy. At least, that's what Harry and Hermione thought when they didn't see any of the other instances of Harry running around.

Then, the mess with Pettigrew happened. The confrontation with Black in the Shrieking Shack. Severus turning up as Peter was unmasked. The werewolf on the grounds. The dementors by the lake. And now this.

_Just a little more time, eh_? Harry mused, preparing his mother's image in his head. Time to _really_ fuck with the timeline.

_Spinspinspinspinspinspinspinspin_-

Three o'clock in the morning on exam day. There wasn't any other time that the halls of Hogwarts were completely silent. Filch took it as the rare day off whenever he could. Mrs. Norris, knowing that she could relax when her master did, followed suit. All the prefects were asleep. All the teachers were too. Poppy snored loudly to herself-OWL and NEWTs students were a bunch of petty divas that day. Not a soul moved anywhere.

The form of Lily Evans appeared with a _pop_ of displaced air, weird-looking necklace in one hand and map in the other. She knew Hermione would stick to the rules and only go back as little as she could get away with. Funny, more than three years stuck in third year and Harry still hadn't convinced her to let up on the rules when given by someone old enough to qualify for a pensions card. Oh well, there would be time for that later.

First, to brew a potion. Thank you Marcus for your tutoring into the more, ah, _questionable_ side of potions brewing. First, the flask of polyjuice from second year-not like she'd needed it at the time. Check. Two, a slate cauldron. Check. Ingredients for Mudgeon's Effects Amplifier, check. Three, a potions lab. Four, a hair of herself looking like her mother. Check. She headed for the dungeons to do some late-night brewing.

* * *

The brewing took approximately an hour. Sneaking into Snape's quarters took a bit longer, but she managed. She _stupefied_ the sleeping git before forcing the potion down his throat and watched him turn into a replica of her mother. Man, that was creepy. Also, definitely a tale for Ron. Had she gotten the Amplifier's dosages right? Hmm, maybe, maybe not. Oh well. She was _sure_ Poppy could handle it. Oh yes, now to ensure that he cannot reverse the effects as soon as he notices them. "_Accio_ bezoar!" In retrospect, shouting that out in Snape's quarters may have not been such a good idea. A literal hail of black nuggets hit her all over. "Ow! Ow! Ow-OOF!" Damn, that'd hurt! What a paranoid motherfucker-wait, thinking of her potions professor that way when she _looked _like her mother? Maybe not the best time in the world. Limping around, she gathered all the bezoars into her enchanted pockets before starting work on the pre-brewed emergency cleansing potions Snape kept locked up. Guessing the combination to the safe? Not cool. Finding out that the anti-tampering runes had worn down , leaving the safe wide open to shrinking and _leviosa_ charms? Really cool.

She grabbed the professor's wand and teaching robes, put the robes on over the top of her own and assumed the guise of Severus Snape, head of Slytherin.

* * *

The figure of Severus Snape drew close to Hagrid's hut, grimacing in disgust every time he looked down at the Potions Professor's robes. The portraits had taken one look at him and gone about their business, wondering if the man had gone around the bend. He'd even said 'hello' to one of the portraits! Positively barmy, that man!

The lights were out and the still night was punctuated by the snores of the giant half-man. Harry rolled his eyes. Drunk off his tits, much like every day since that class with Malfoy no doubt. He wondered if he should have a _talk_ with Draco in this form at some stage. Maybe, maybe not. Something to ponder for later.

Buckbeak, however, was still awake. Awake and glaring at the shape of the sallow man in front of her. She remembered him well from long ago. Though he'd grown, he still smelled the same as he did when he'd bowed stiffly in front of her. She hadn't attacked him, but it had been a close call.

Harry smirked before turning back into Harry and bowing deeply once more. It seemed that Buckbeak was impressed. Now _there _was an ape with some proper manners! Approaching carefully, Harry unfastened the chain around Buckbeak's neck and patted the bird on her rump. Buckbeak bowed to the young ape in gratitude before soaring to freedom. Harry'd made a new friend. Yay.

Okay, the easy part was over. Now for the hard part. Grabbing a moulted feather off the ground, Harry waved his wand at the mulch heap behind him, turning it into a plinth of volcanic rock. He carefully laid down the feather on top of the plinth before muttering a few choice words in hebrew. The topsoil that covered the roots of the pumpkin patch raced towards the plinth, covering the feather in a layer of stinking mud and leaving the vegetable roots bare under the light of the moon.

He retrieved a silver potions knife from Snape's robes and cut into his pinky finger, muttering chants he'd been working on with Hermione in their off time. Slowly, the plinth dissolved into a roiling, boiling mass of mud that got hotter and hotter as time passed. Harry chanted faster. The mass assumed a four-legged shape before it became a recognisable Gryffin. Feathers grew out of the muddy body. The beak turned into the off-yellow colour common to Gryffins. The eyes formed. And Buckbeak was in front of him. Harry stopped chanting and staggered, exhausted by the effort of moulding a mud clone into the correct shape. It'd only last for twenty-four hours, but that was more than long enough for what he had planned.

* * *

She waited for Hermione to appear under the invisibility cloak she'd stolen from her sleeping self. It took a while, but there Hermione appeared, looking as frazzled as she had when Sheila'd last seen her. She lifted the cloak off. "Hey, Hermione! Finished exams already?"

"Harry?"

"Sheila." She said in a deadpan tone. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"Yes, we do! We've got to save Buckb-"

"Done." Sheila said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, good. Then there's Sirius and Remus that need help. And the dementors, of course..."

Sheila smiled. "Hermione, my dear, fret not! For I, Sheila McLane, have a cunning plan."

"... You're a prat, Harry."

* * *

In the end, it wasn't Snape who stormed into their little meeting. Not that anyone except Hermione, currently hidden from her past self under an invisibility cloak, knew that. The same rigmarole happened again, only this time Pettigrew didn't get away. Buckbeak turned up to save 'Snape' (while the actual one was sitting in front of a mirror crying her eyes out & asking for forgiveness) and took care of the werewolf that'd gotten too close for comfort. Pettigrew was stunned and bound under the cloak while Harry changed into Lily and hared off to go save herself from imminent death. Then, after she'd returned, all three were taken by Buckbeak to the top tower in order to save Sirius from The Kiss.

Sirius couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Lily riding a Gryffin to come and save him. He was pretty sure that even his wildest hallucinations in Azkaban hadn't quite featured _that_ chain of events.

Sirius was switched with a snoring Peter Pettigrew while Sirius, Hermione and Lily rode to safety. Ron woke up surrounded by his two best friends and a new pet dog as an apology for Crookshanks having 'eaten' Scabbers. He didn't take it well, but still accepted his new pet. He _liked_ dogs. Molly pitched a fit until Dumbledore had a word with her. Sirius's body was recovered from the lake and he was post-humously pardoned a week later. In his place, a man named James Kirk, a long-lost cousing of Sirius's from America, took over as head of house Black. Hermione never let him hear the end of it.

The two time travellers quite forgot to hand in their time turners for summer. Albus helped cover for them, though, so all went well.

And did they live happily ever after? No, but that is a story for another time. Or times. It got confusing after all.

**A/N: Why? Because bear in mind the motto of the human race-why the fuck not? Toodles!**


	19. Slytherin without a cause

Slytherin without a cause

* * *

This one is a combination of tropes; wrong-boy-who-lived, Slytherin!Harry and alive!parents. Again, done to buggery, but quite fun to play with. In this one, Harry was on a play-date with Neville on Halloween night while his parents let off some, ah-hem, steam. Voldemort happens, killing Neville's parents. Harry somehow still gets stuck with the hero job, but nobody knows it. Neville's grandmother sequesters her grandson from public life and Frank & Alice's friends (and, because Pettigrew was the one to tell Voldemort about the playdate, the Potters let it stand out of guilt) while Harry grows up under the watchful eyes of his mother, father and uncles with strange habits.

He's got a load of siblings and is normally snowed under keeping them in line. So he decides to indulge in a little pre-teen rebellion after getting his letter, gets sorted into Slytherin and becomes an insufferable brat. Funnily enough, he and Snape get along fine when Snape isn't taking points in class and Harry's spiking Snape's food and drink with potions. This is a story of a snarky little bastard going through Hogwarts, the girl he loves to antagonise every so often and their crazy adventures.

Oh, and because he was conceived prior to the Potters wedding, he cannot, in fact, inherit the Potter estates. He may keep the name, but he really _is_ a bastard in this fic. If you want to write this up, keep that in mind. It's an important factor in his never-ending quest for people to piss off & shit to steal.

NB: Since I abhor bashing of any kind, Harry's parents are nice, which is _not_ a wrong-bwl standard much to my disgust. He's a little shit because he's a teenager, not because his parents are shits to him. Even Severus is nice-for a given value of nice...

* * *

Hermione Granger was sitting on a toilet feeling sorry for herself. She hadn't expected that from Weasley. The boy was just _mean_. And the way Neville just looked on... Honestly, if that was the hero of the wizarding world, then a strong wind would be enough to topple it.

How pathetic was this? Her first Halloween in the wizarding world and she was missing it because she couldn't take idiots making the same comments she'd heard for most of her school life. Not that that observation did anything to stop her crying. Why should it? She'd expected a new start amongst people just like her. Instead, she found more of the same except that now it was school with the added excitement of having idiots run around with weapons they didn't understand or even know how to use properly. Perfect.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door to her toilet. "Leave me alone." she said, sounding miserable.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, there's a troll loose in the school and you're kind of endangering me here by whining about some shite, so if you could wrap it up and leg it back up to that ivory tower of yours, it'd be much appreciated, thanks." a boy's voice said with an audible sneer.

That-that _bastard_! Hermione shoulder-charged the door to the toilet before bringing out her wand. "What did you say?"

"I said 'troll loose, get a move on princess'. What, are you deaf as well as a Gryffindor?" he commented, completely ignoring her wand and focusing on her with a worrying intensity.

"What-who are you and why should _you_ care? Isn't this a prefect's job?"

"Harry Potter, Slytherin first year. And I thought that joining the search party for the errant firstie sounded like a grand plan when compared to the headmaster's suggestion of following my dim-witted peers down into the dungeon, which just happens to be where the troll was last sighted. That enough for you or should we continue to stand around here like idiots? Oh wait, Gryffindor, forgot who I was talking to."

"You-you-ugh." She sighed. "Fine, let's get moving."

"Great! Lead the way princess." The boy said, pushing her in front of him.

"And why should _I_ do it, mister Harry arsed Potter?" She asked as she marched for the door.

"Haha, never heard that one before, one more for the burn unit." That boy could make deadpan sound downright _painful_. "Three reasons- first, you're part of the house that's been known to yell 'CHARGE' whenever confronted with any obstacle, so you get the front seat so I don't get bowled over in your mad dash of suicidal glory. Two, I don't actually know where the Gryffindor dorms are and three, if there is a troll heading our way, it should focus on you long enough for me to leg it."

"... Whatever, let's just get out of here." She sniffed the air. "Eww, what's that-" She opened the door and looked up. And up. And up. "-smell." She did what came naturally to any little girl confronted with twelve foot worth of Gronk. She screamed until Harry tackled her out of the way of the club larger than her slamming down where she'd been a second ago.

"You _so_ owe me for this." Harry stated as the troll darted forward. But that wasn't the main focus of Harry's attention. That distinction went to the two Gryffie firsties that'd come charging in before freezing at the sight of the Slytherin seemingly molesting their damsel in distress while a troll was bearing down on him. "_So much_."

* * *

"Hey, where's Draco?" Ron asked in confusion. Ron, Neville and Hermione were sitting in the trophy room pondering that question as they waited for twelve o'clock to strike and go back to the common room.

"For the fifth time Ron, wherever he is, he's not here." Neville said in a miffed tone. He blamed Ron for this. And Draco, but mainly Ron. Long-time friends they may be, but Neville sometimes caught himself thinking that Weasley was just so _thick_ at times, which was unfair. Maybe.

"Boys." Hermione said, angry at her two class-mates. This was going to cost them so much points she could already hear the _plink_ of stones disappearing from the points tally thing in the Hall.

"I say we leave." Neville said. "We can just go see Draco tomorrow to reschedule."

"That won't be necessary." a voice came from the shadows. "I must apologise for Draco. He thought he could just set a trap by using a duel as bait. Fortunately, I found out in time to slip Filch a drowsiness potion and get up here. The loss of prestige to House Slytherin would have been truly _shattering_."

"Potter?" Hermione asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Duelling. Didn't we cover this already?" he said, his wand starting to leave a green light trail in the air. It was definitely an impressive effect. "Anyway, since Malfoy's too chicken to face a trio of Gryffindors alone-good instincts, that kid- that leaves me to take his place as his second."

"So we're duelling you?" Ron asked.

"Yes."

"Only you?" Neville interjected.

"Indeed. Assuming I survive, I expect this to be quite a tale to tell in the dungeons. The prestige alone..." He sighed contentedly. "But enough of that, who's first?"

"Neville." Ron said, earning a glare from the other two. "What? I'm just the second here."

"As am I, you dolt." Harry said. "Honestly, some people... anyway, boy-who-lived first, then redheaded comic relief second, then third you I assume?" he asked, pointing his wand at Hermione.

"No." Hermione bristled. "I'm just here to make sure those two don't do anything too stupid."

"Well, let me be the first and possibly only one to commend you on the fine job you've been doing so far. Shame though, you look like the kind of girl it'd be fun to duel."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean Potter?" Hermione asked, itching to reach for her wand.

"That you've got more brains than your two companions put together and are ridiculously thin-skinned?" He smirked. "I should introduce to Greengrass one day. You two would probably get on like a house on fire."

"So the two of us together would cause chaos, death and confusion as we inevitably burned ourselves out?" He wasn't the only one that read Pratchett.

"Oh yes! You know, you're pretty sharp for a Gryffindor."

"Grrr." ooh, he was asking for it. "Just get on with your boyishness and leave me out of this."

"I aim to please. Now, Neville." Harry turned to face the boy-who-lived. "I believe that the duelling code calls for us to assume positions and bow to each other before the fun starts, yes?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Good. Now get moving please. I don't have all night, you know." He said, swishing his wand around and bowing. Neville, once in position, did the same.

"_Expelliarmus_" Neville screamed, going for the fast victory.

"Predictable. _Stupefy_!" he shouted. Longbottom slumped down, out cold. "Lesson one; _Never_ be easy to predict. You listening, you two?"

Ron, not bothering to say anything, just marched into position and glared at Potter before bowing. "_Chirop__tera mucus_!"

The bat bogey headed straight for Harry-who dodged "Nice! _Wingardium Leviosa_!" Harry incanted whilst aiming low. Ron's shoe went flying, toppling him over. "_Stupefy_!" And Ron was out of the fight. "Oops, seems that he's hit his head on the way down. Oh well. You'll take it from here, right?" Harry smirked.

Hermione just gaped. "And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?"

"Well, _wingardium leviosa_ the two of them up the stairs one at a time and hope that the second one comes about before you get down from your common room?" Her glare interrupted his gloating. "Right. Well, I could _try_ renervating them, but I haven't gotten it down quite yet. No?" He asked hopefully. "I doubt anyone'd notice a bit extra brain damage in those two." She let her glare answer the question. Harry sighed. " Fine, but you're _leviosa_-ing Weasley. I think he pissed his pants when I cast the _stupefy_ at him. I'm not letting my magic anywhere near that."

Hermione ground her teeth. That boy was _impossible_!

"And Granger? One day, you and me, Great Hall. I'm pretty sure you'll do better than these two pansies. Not that you could ever beat _me_, but it'd still be a good fight."

The silent rage-fuelled hex she sent his way almost hit him. He just laughed as he ran with Neville floating along behind him, the muffled bumps of Longbottom hitting low-hanging wooden beams as Potter fled the irate witch's wrath punctuating the climb. Hermione was sure Harry was aiming for them.

* * *

"Potter?" Hermione asked, finding the Slytherin pain in her ass busy trying to lockpick the door to the third challenge. "What are you doing down here?"

"Uh, I can explain?" The boy said without turning around. "Give me a second, though, I'm almost through Flitwick's locking charm."

"I'd prefer to have one _r__ight now_ if you please." The girl stated, her wand glowing a deep shade of crimson.

"Well, I got bored, so I decided that stealing the philosoper's stone would make for a nice distraction. And you three?"

"We're trying to stop Snape from stealing it." Neville said.

"Wait, why would Sev want to steal the philosopher's stone?" Potter asked, confused. "And anyway, he's currently sleeping off an 'accidental' ingestion of the draught of living death." The air quotes were a nice touch.

There was a deep silence as the Gryffindors digested this. "So wait, it's not Snape?" Ron asked in a disappointed tone.

"Nope, Quirrel." the distracted reply came. "Rule one of gambling at Hogwarts; if shit's going down, bet on the defence professor. They're nuttier than a snickers, that lot."

Hermione noted the muggle reference. "Well, that doesn't change the fact that we need to keep it out of Quirrel's paws."

"As long as it ends up in mine I don't really care. Space for one extra?" He said with that annoying grin of his.

"Just don't... talk and we should be good." She allowed after thinking it over.

"Count on-"

"Hrrm-hrrm." Hermione cleared her throat. He really didn't think before agreeing to that one, poor boy.

"Oka-"

"Ah-hem." Neville politely interjected.

"Alr-"

"RRM!" Ron joined in.

"ALRIGHT, I GET IT! Girls..."

"No talking!" Hermione said, smiling. This was fun.

* * *

"Oh, I got it!" Hermione cried out triumphantly. "It's this bottle!"

Neville frowned as he glanced at the bottle. "That doesn't look like much."

Harry surreptitiously edged closer and took a good look. "Hmm, you're right. There's enough for only one dose. Yoink!" he shouted, snatching out of Hermione's unprepared grasp and gulping it down. "See ya later, chumps!"

And thus, Harry Potter confronted Quirrelmort in the holding chamber. He never mentioned the volume of curses that Hermione sent his way he'd had to dodge to get there. She felt bad about it later, but Potter brushed it off.

* * *

"-And for performing acts of bravery above and beyond any other, I award Harry Potter ten points!"

The entire hall was silent. Draco lost the horrified look he'd sported as he contemplated the notion of Gryffindor winning the house cup on _his_ watch and gained the puce-coloured tint anyone who spent any length of time around the Potter boy gained. Potter, the bastard half-blood, had done it again. He'd managed to draw the House Cup.

"And now, I think a change in _decor_ is in order, don't you?" Albus Dumbledore asked in full rhetorical mode as he swished his wand around. Red, silver, green and gold colours filled the hall. It actually looked quite stylish. The headmaster grinned like a loon.

Hermione just looked at the head table in shock. They'd-and then-huh? What the hell had just happened? "I didn't know you could have two houses holding the cup at the same time." This was definitely going into the new edition of _Hogwarts, A History_.

In the middle of the festivities, she saw Potter try to slink away from the crowd, warily eyeing his house-mates and well-wishers that had almost encircled him before fearfully looking up at the ceiling of the Great Hall. Hermione followed his gaze and saw a white owl circling high above and getting closer, a red, smoking envelope clutched in its talons. The owl started to dive. Harry took off in a sprint. The avian missile levelled out and beat its wings, easily following Potter down a side entrance. Hermione heard a muffled whine of '_Ow! Hedwig!_' before Hermione shuffled around to keep the boy in sight. He was sprawled on the floor, the owl screeching at him in what would probably be counted as very rude owlish while a red envelope started to smoke at his feet. The envelope whistled as the parchment unfolded.

"Oh fuck." The boy swore calmly, bracing himself for something, but for what?

The Howler exploded to life. "HARRY. JAMES. _POTTER_." The dulcet tones of a furious Lily Potter in Severus mode echoed through the hall, interrupting the revels. The Potions Master, with the practice borne of having had to eat crow for a long, _long_ time in order to save the one childhood friendship he'd managed to make, ducked before he even knew what was going on. Miss Potter had found out about her son's year.

When the Howler finally dissipated, Malfoy started smiling gleefully. That should tell you how, ah, _entertaining_ and educating the last five minutes had been for all concerned.

* * *

Hermione went to sit in a seemingly empty train car-and promptly sat on a sleeping Harry Potter's lap. "Ack! What-"

"I could ask you the same question, bushy. But please, don't get up on my behalf." an amused and horribly familiar voice said.

"Potter? What the hell do you think you're doing?" She screeched as she jumped off Potter.

"Well, I _was_ sleeping. Though, if your greeting is anything to go by, I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy your company if we engaged in something I can think of as a conversation." He answered, his head popping out of the invisibility cloak.

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"Not right now, no. They're so annoyingly sycophantic because I, quote, 'saved the House Cup from the Gryffindors', unquote. Honestly, it was a draw. I could do better than that if I wanted to."

"So that's your reason for abusing an invisibility cloak? Who did you steal it from?"

"Hey! It's mine, thank you very much!"

"Sure it is. Is the Philosopher's Stone yours now as well or are you just 'borrowing' it?"

"Dumbledore destroyed it." He said, dejected.

"What?"

"Yeah, sprouted some shite about how it was too powerful, too dangerous to exist, bla bla bla and then _completely_ glossed over the fact that the Flamels now had the life expectancy of a suicidal lemming."

"And because you didn't get to keep it." Hermione observed.

"Well, that too. But hey, I'd have given it back to the Flamels... eventually."

Hermione laughed. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Harry smiled. "I try. Summer plans?"

"France."

"Ah, nice. Be sure to visit Montpellier. Nice place."

"And you?"

"Well, drop in and say hi to the family before doing, well, other things."

"Oh, that's... good?"

"It'll be interesting at least. Say, when do you want to have that duel with me?"

Hermione smiled at the strangest Slytherin she'd ever met. "When I know, I'll tell you."

"... You still owe me for that troll, you know."

* * *

"How could you?"An irate red-head dressed in the dragon-hide robes and fencer's boots of a magical naturalist asked her son again. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry Mom." The dark-haired boy said sheepishly as he saw his mother's angry side come out to play. Maybe that Malfoy boy was on to something. Seeing Harry 'I can't be arsed about etiquette you fucking wanker' Potter desperately trying to look all innocent and puppy-eyed in front of the one person it was guaranteed _never_ to work on was far more entertaining than she cared to admit.

"I mean honestly, drugging Severus is one thing, but trying to steal the Stone?"

"I already apologised to him, you know that. I just spent the past week cleaning up his bloody lab. I swear that nobody's ever washed it before. The tiles _gleam_ now. Also, I didn't _try_ to steal the Stone, I _succeeded_." He said, changing tactics by smirking in a very Slytherin way.

"Oh yes, I am so proud that my little boy is growing up to be a _thief_." She spat out. "You just wait until your father gets home tonight-no, wait, I know!" She said, her smirk mirroring the one Harry'd sported half a second ago. "You just wait until I tell Remus."

Harry paled. "Oh please, not Remus mom! I don't want to be stuck learning etiquette all summer again." Hermione paused. He'd done something this stupid _before_?

"Oh yes, yes I think that'll do."

"... Tell you what." Harry said tentatively.

"What?"

"If I help you in the garden, can you at least as Uncle Remus to make the punishment interesting?"

"Of course! I was already planning on asking that of him anyway." Hermione noticed that the smirk didn't change in any way as Harry's mom said this, though Harry's look of relief meant that he'd missed this little tid-bit. Silly little Slytherin, not paying attention to the semantics.

"Thanks Mom. Love you."

"Love you too Son. Now, who's this young lady?" She asked casually as she looked at the suddenly very nervous bushy-haired girl in front of her.

"Oh, that's Hermione. She's in my year. Mom, Hermione. Hermione, Mom aka Lily Potter." He introduced the two carefully. He'd heard about things like this before and wanted no part in any surprise marriage negotiations, thank you very much. Hermione shook Lily's hand and looked at Harry curiously. "She's a Gryffindor in my year. Real smart when she's not following dumb & dumber around and keeping them from committing suicide by House Pride."

"Harry! Language!" Hermione exclaimed exasperatedly. Honestly, if only he'd keep his opinions to himself sometimes. "They are _not_ stupid!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just heard of the dragon-smuggling incident and _assumed_ that they were. So please, do enlighten me as to the depths of their mad genius if you will." He grinned at her.

"Harry." Lily growled. "_Not_ funny."

He wilted under the twin glares. "Sorry mom, Granger. But it's true, she _is_ incredibly intelligent. Top witch of our year, in fact, and that's with being the custodian of the other two." He smiled at Hermione. "She's great."

Hermione just blushed as Lily gave her son an oddly knowing look. "_Please_ Potter. You're embarrassing me."

"Anytime toots." Oh, he was _so_ getting it as soon as his mom turned her back. "So, see you next year? I've got an ethics essay or five waiting for me now."

"Um, okay. Hey, don't forget to write!" She shouted as the mother & son duo walked away.

"And spoil our reunion? Fat chance Granger!" He cackled back.

"_OOOH! POTTER!"_ He drove her crazy sometimes.


	20. SWAC: Keep on Slytherin

So I decided to continue writing Slytherin without a cause as a continuation of the tropes!series. Today, fitting in with the theme of 2nd year, we have Harry as the true heir of Slytherin. Or, since his parents are alive, _an_ heir of Slytherin. Now then, onwards my pretties! The sparkly pony unicorn of fanfiction awaits!

* * *

Neville Longbottom was a quiet, unassuming lad. Unfortunately, he was a quiet, unassuming lad who was believed to be the hero of the Wizarding World because his parents did some funky protection magics before Voldemort turned them into sticky paint. Though he was thankful for his parents' sacrifice, he was less than happy about how that sacrifice'd somehow been twisted into turning _him_ into the war hero. He hadn't done anything given that he'd been in diapers at the time and shouldn't, therefore, be hailed as a hero in the stead of his dead parents. But had anyone listened to his opinion? No, of course not. That'd involve acknowledging him as something other than a storytime character for children ages thirty and up.

As a result, he was about as happy and at home traipsing down Diagon Alley as he was in Snape's potions classroom. Actually, on balance, he preferred being around Snape. Snarky, sarcastic asshole Snape (_professor Snape_, his Hermione voice interjected) may be, but at least you knew where you stood with the man-that is to say, as far away from him as you could possibly manage.

Needless to say, he avoided the greater Wizarding World with a fervor normally ascribed to hermits and the more, ah, 'eccentric' Dark Wizard. Generally, he was quite successful at it, to the point where he could indulge in his obsession with avoiding the public 364 out of 365 days a year. However, there was one day in the year, he was beginning to find, where no amount of bargaining, cajoling, wheedling and outright bribery could buy him the peace and quiet he so desperately craved.

Diagon Alley shopping day.

The mere thought sent shudders down his spine. First, there was the hustle and bustle of a Longbottom heir being made to look 'decent' in public, which left Neville looking like a midget-sized Victorian dandy. Then came the interview with the Daily Prophet. Thank Merlin that grand-mother had spent most of the past decade digging up fine dirt on the so-called journalists of Wizarding Britain. Skeeter would have been quite tough to manage otherwise. Then there was the trip through the floo (and hadn't _that_ been a grand occasion) before descending into the mosh pit of his adoring fans. Joy.

By the time he'd managed to lose his grandmother in the Leaky Cauldron and was finally, _finally_ allowed to stock up on his plants and school supplies for the year, it was almost lunch-time. He really didn't want this. Boy-who-lived? Please. _Lived_? He was still alive. Wasn't boy-who-survived more appropriate? Couldn't these idiots just leave well enough alone and forget about the whole thing? He'd really appreciate not being reminded about him being an orphan for once. Or being given a title that didn't suggest that he was not, in fact, dead yet. That would be nice.

He adjusted his floppy, wide-brimmed hat to cover the scar and continued on. Right into the back of Harry Potter.

* * *

"Ow! Watch it you buffoon!" The eldest Potter child cried out.

"Harry!" His mother shouted. "You apologise right now, young man." Lily Potter was _not _in a good mood. Why oh why did James have to take a day off today of all days? She had enough trouble herding her children around without adding another one to the mix. She just hoped he didn't anger anyone too badly while she was taking care of her other four children. Or that Sirius had the good sense to heed Lily's dire warnings and stay away from the Alley while she was out shopping.

Harry turned around and found himself face-to-hat. A hat with feathers in it. "I apologise for calling you a buffoon. I intended it as an insult but your dress sense tells me that it is a statement of fact. I shall endeavour to choose my words more carefully in future." He was not happy either. He'd been badgered, harangued and generally man-handled out of bed at 8 in the morning during summer break to ride herd on his younger siblings. To a twelve-year-old, such a thing was beyond the pale.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!" She screeched. "I'm sorry. My son is being, ah, _difficult_ and shall be dealt with accordingly." She said, smirking at her son's wince. Oh, he'd pay alright. His sister would make sure of _that_.

"Umm, it's okay." Neville said nervously. "I'm fine."

"... Neville?" Harry asked. "That you?"

"Uhh, yes?" Oh bugger. He had the feeling he'd never hear the end of this one.

"Why the hell are you wearing a hat? And such a ridiculous one at that? It has plumage, for Merlin's sake!"

"Trying to avoid attention." The boy admitted. "So I thought, why not dress like this on such a fine morning?" Damn. For a Gryffindor, Longbottom sure had sarcasm down to a fine art. Not for the first time, Harry wondered just what the boy was doing in Gryffindor. He was more of a Hufflepuff than anything else and showed shades of silvery green on occasion, so why was he stuck with the house of the brain-dead exactly?

"Because you look like a ponce. With zero fashion sense." Harry drawled as he tugged the hat off. "There, better. Now come on, I've got a surprise for you."

"Oh?" Longbottom asked nervously. "What kind of surprise, Potter?"

"Well, Neville, have you ever met my brother & sisters?" Harry smirked at him in that 'I'm a Slytherin. _Of course_ pain'll be involved' manner that told of dark things in Neville's future. For all that, though, the very much reluctant boy-who-lived found himself happy at having run into the Potter family. Why, though, was a question he couldn't find an answer to.

* * *

They found Hermione in, surprise surprise, a bookshop. "Neville? Harry? What are you two doing in here?" She asked, surprised at having Potter, Neville, Potter's mom and three other children turn up behind her.

"Shopping. You?" Potter asked. Curt as ever.

The bushy-haired girl huffed. "Flourish & Blotts don't accept British Pounds. Neither to Steepleshack & Wooster's down Knockturn. This place does. Therefore, if I want to buy books that aren't part of the standard Hogwarts curriculum, I can either buy something here or use the few sickles I have left to buy a pamphlet or something instead."

Lily smiled at the girl. "I had the same problem when I started attending Hogwarts. Care to show me what books you want to buy?" She liked Hermione, she really did, but the girl had a nose for good books that rivalled hers. Wouldn't do to have Harry's friend steal the books Lily wanted to buy from right under her nose.

"Well, I've found _Beginner's Alchemy,The Pureblood's guide to rituals, The Wizengamot: a muggleborn's perspective _and _Runes & Arithmancy; what you should, shouldn't and probably don't want to know_ so far, but I've only started."

"Hey Granger." Harry said smoothly. "So what is it you're looking for, exactly?"

"Fiction books." She stated. "I know next to nothing about magical literature, so I thought I'd buy a few. No luck so far though."

"Fiction?" Neville asked. "What's that?"

"Books about fantasy, Longbottom." A red-haired, green-eyed girl stated.

"Fantasy-oh, stories."

"Yes Longbottom." The girl piped up again. "Stories."

Lily sighed. "Rose, stop patronising Neville please." The surly little girl glowered at her mother before nodding. "Good. Now run along. Harry, keep watch over Rose, Charlie and Junior for me please while I help your friends." Harry just nodded and left quickly. If he hurried, maybe he could stop the trio from setting fire to the shop before they were outside. "Right then. Neville, Hermione, with me." She smiled. "Let me show you how to find what you're looking for in this mess."

* * *

Ron met up with the Potter contingent in front of Lockhart's stand. Augusta joined them shortly thereafter and started berating Neville for removing the Longbottom _Dauphin_'s traditional headcover, which caused Harry to bristle on behalf of his acquaintance's discomfort and Gilderoy to become aware of the fact that a ready-made opportunity to hit the front page for the third day running was within striking distance. He surreptitiously stood up, shooing away one of his countless middle-aged fangirls in the process, and started to sneak up on the still oblivious boy-who-lived. He didn't get very far though. Lily Potter's fist got in the way.

"Hello Gilderoy." The woman said calmly. "Remember back when we went to school together?" Lockhart nodded dumbly as he tried to gather his wits. "Remember that time you drank polyjuice and snuck into the Gryffindor tower to, quote, 'help with my Patronus charm', unquote?" He nodded- before remembering that that was one story he'd never admitted to before and started shaking his head instead. The sweet smile Lily gave him told him enough. "No? What a pity. Well, let us refresh your memory a bit, shall we? _Repetere Morsus_! Oh, and Lockhart? Dumbledore has found a more suitable candidate for the DADA position this year. Your services shall not be required." She told a whimpering Lockhart as he desperately tried to _finite_ the stinging jinx Lily'd hit him in the balls with.

Neville looked at his new hero in awe. Harry's mom had protected him from the evils of publicity. Nobody'd ever even hinted that this was a possibility before. Harry's mom was the _best adult ever_!

The Potter kids smirked as one. Mom was awesome sometimes. Especially when she was mad at someone other than themselves.

* * *

Harry stared at the King's Cross portal. Which was closed off. Ron Weasley & Neville Longbottom looked on sheepishly. "You two. What the fuck did you do?"

"What? We didn't do anything! Why would this have anything to do with us?" Ron exclaimed.

Harry glared at the red-head. "Because I pay attention to something other than food & chess? Because I know you two? Because I happen to carry more brains than a flobberworm?" He asked pointedly. "Look, I don't care, just fix it."

"Fix it? But we don't know how it happened." Neville said.

"Right. And Hermione, Mom & Rose are on the train-that just left." He sighed as he looked at his watch. "Dad's probably left with the other sprogs, so we're shit out of luck. Well, guess we need to find a way to get to Hogwarts. Any ideas?"

"Well, there is one way..." The red-head said. Oh great, a plan devised by a Gryffindor. What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

As it turned out, a lot of things could go wrong with a Gryffindor plan.

First, there's the whole 'grand theft auto' aspect to the plan. Second, you have to account for the fact that pre-teens driving a car through downtown London attract attention. A lot of attention. Especially when they learn how to drive a car whilst driving it. Third, there are only a maximum of three pedals in a standard car-acceleration, brake and clutch. Pressing the fourth one (up) is not a good idea when your invisibility generator is off-line. And, problem number four, trying to board the Hogwarts express by opening a door on your flying car and attempting to jump the distance is _not_ recommended.

Many, _many_ things went wrong that day-Ron driving, Neville puking his guts out at five thousand feet, Harry having panic attacks at the thought of what his mother would do to him when they landed, all of them nearly dying several times because Ron failed to register the fact that, even in the air, there were obstacles around. Like buildings. Mountains. Airplanes. Birds. The ground. The list of potentially fatal things that Ron Weasley failed to pay attention to got longer and longer as time went by.

It was a plan that was so... _Gryffindor_ in its execution that Harry could smell the disaster before it even happened. Hogwarts was a very large castle that commanded an extensive area of level grasslands on one side, a lake on the other and the forest making up the difference. All you had to do was aim for the grass and you were home clear.

Naturally, Weasley aimed for the Whomping Willow instead.

There was literally no worse landing spot short of the great hall (missed by inches) or the parade ground in Buckingham palace (where the trio took off from) in all of England. Harry supposed that he was overdue a bit of bad karma, but _come on_!

"Weasley." Harry ground out as he saw Severus Snape approaching the battered trio, wand in hand and death glare in place. "This is all. Your. Fault."

* * *

Flint blinked at the little firstie banging her head against the Slytherin table. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid _brother."

"What's up with you, then?" The quidditch captain asked curiously, fork in hand as he waited for the potatoes to appear in front of him.

"My brother, oh wonderful human being that he is, is missing. Which means that he has, inevitably, come up with some disastrous new way to get himself into trouble, no doubt dragging some poor hapless soul along with him."

"Does it happen often then?" He asked in an amused tone of voice.

"Generally once every two weeks. Hogwarts seems to bring out the worst in him, though."

"Ah. Don't worry about it. I'm sure he'll turn up, safe and sound." He assured the girl with a smile. Slytherin firsties were amusing. Sarcasm included, morality optional. So easy to corrupt.

"Oh yes, I'm sure. Then Mom will get a hold of him and..." She smiled viciously. "You'll see."

"Heh. Marcus Flint." He said, extending his hand to the small red-head that was eyeing him curiously.

"Rose Potter." She nodded as she saw the smile the strange boy sported freeze in place. "Yes, one of _those_ Potters."

"-And now, may I introduce this year's Defence Against The Dark Arts professor, Lily Marie Potter!" The headmaster announced into a thundering silence.

"And that's my mother over there."

Clearly insane mother (sure bet for DADA professors) plus crazy brother (turning down the opportunity to become the youngest seeker in a century? Had to be off his nut) equals-"... We've already lost the house cup this year, haven't we?" Flint asked in a wooden tone. One Potter in Slytherin was bad enough. The number of points that boy'd lost by being an arse had been mind-boggling enough, but two of them? Slytherin house was doomed, extra quidditch points or no extra quidditch points.

"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_." Rose smirked. "I am a Potter, after all, and I'm here to help."

Somehow, that didn't do much to reassure the boy.

* * *

Lily Potter stood in front of the Gryffindor-Slytherin second year DADA class and scowled at them. "Good morning class."

"Good morning Professor." The twenty twelve-year-olds greeted her.

"My name is Lily Marie Potter. I am a veteran of the last war, a naturalist by trade and a mother of four. I have seen, done and experienced many of the darker aspects of magic as a result-which is why I am here. You, my precious students, are here for one reason and one reason only; survival. With the lessons you will learn in this classroom over the coming year, I expect you to be able to triumph over the more common dangers known to wizardkind. Dark creatures, creative hexes, magical predators, cursed artifacts and enchanted weaponry kill more wizards every day than anything else. Most of these deaths are pointless, since countering or at least avoiding the vast majority of these dangers is a simple and easy thing to achieve. And I am here to teach you how to do this. Potter!" She shouted, startling her son out of his happy place. "Pay attention if you don't want to have yet more detention with Severus."

"Yes m-professor." Harry said, paying exactly no attention to his mother as he said it.

"Harry!" Hermione whispered frantically. "What are you doing? You're going to lose points."

"Wow, losing points for Slytherin . However will Gryffindor cope with the trauma?" He retorted. "Anyway, Mom's done her 'put the fear of Merlin' bit, so now's when it gets funky." He smirked as he rubbed his hands in glee.

"Now class," She stated, pointedly ignoring her son until she could have a word with him. "I am going to demonstrate a basic defence spell that you can use for either engaging your enemies or destroying obstacles. The incantation is _reducto_. Pay attention to the wand movements."

* * *

Ginny stared at her fellow red-headed firstie and frowned. Rose smirked across the table from her. Hermione, Neville, Ron and Harry looked on.

"What do you think they're doing?" Neville asked.

"Marking territory. My sister's a bit of a psycho when it comes to unrelated red-heads." Harry commented as he munched on a tuna sandwich.

"_Her_ territory?" Ron asked Harry. "But this is the Gryffindor table." Ah, confusing Gryffindors. It never got old.

"I don't think that matters to her. She just wants to establish herself as _the_ red-head in her year."

"But... but why?" Hermione asked. "And what are you even doing, sitting at our table?"

"Because she thinks she can, I believe. As for me, I'm fostering inter-house co-operation."

"They've kicked you off your table then?" Hermione asked shrewdly.

"For losing points." Potter shrugged. "Not that _I_ care. Just means that I avoid the twins' prank _du jour_ and you get to enjoy my august presence for the day."

"Great. And her?" Ron pointed at his sister. "What's _she_ doing here?"

"Hell if I know. They don't kick firsties off the table as a rule. Maybe she just wants the company of people that she deems to be intellectually challenged for a while?"

"_What_ did you just say?" Oliver Wood asked acidly. This kid was getting on his nerves.

"Was I addressing you, you blonde troll? Shoo, go back to enjoying your food, the grown-ups are talking."

Oliver started to loom. Katie Bell intervened. "Ollie, don't we have quidditch practice to get to?" She asked meaningfully.

"What-oh yes, sorry. I'd forgotten."

"Seems like you forget many things, Woodpecker." The Potter brat interjected, smirking as he saw Bell's frantic hand signals telling him to _stop talking_. "Like how Flint totally kicked your ass last year."

"Alright, that's it." Oliver said, standing up. "You wanted a fight, you little runt?"

"No Ollie, I never wanted a fight with you. _Petrificus totalus_." He incanted using the wand he'd hidden underneath the table, causing the Gryffindor Captain to seize up and fall off his chair. "A fight implies that you ever had a chance at beating me, after all. Can't have that now, can we? I have an image to maintain, after all-and a table to return to as a conquering hero tonight. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I bid you farewell. Ta-ta!" He shouted back as he ran away from the angry Gryffindor quidditch fanatics. Yes, messing with them was indeed a worthy pastime.

Rose broke eye contact to stare at her idiot brother making a run for it. She looked back at the little Weasley pretender to the red-head throne. She was smirking. Damnit. Round one of the stare-off goes to you, my adversary. But I, Rose Potter, shall triumph in the end.

* * *

Severus looked on as his snakes did their level best to drive him to distraction. He found himself smiling anyway, a rare and terrifying sight to strangers & acquaintances alike. Two Potters out of a possible four. James was, according to Lucius, having copious kittens as his former Slytherin year-mates dropped by at the ministry specifically to taunt their school-time nemesis. Severus, currently enjoying a truce towards the Potter patriarch enforced by the iron fist of Lily Potter, didn't dare break cover and congratulate the man on having fathered such a cunning batch of snakes. That didn't stop him from sending Remus Lupin said material, though. And if James got to sneak a peek and lose his composure? Not his fault. Heh.

And what a pair of talented little darlings they were too. Harry, the boy who shielded the most dastardly of plots and machinations behind a mask made of brashness & outspoken house pride, was giving the Malfoy boy a run for his money. Rose was already plotting to undermine the seventh-year prefects' credibility if the Bloody Baron was to be believed, but to what ends the ghost hadn't been able to determine. And if you listened to Lily, the two younger Potter sprogs were just as bad.

Could he go for the quadrifecta? Could he dare hope that this generation of Potters would _all_ land in his oh-so-capable hands, driving their father up the wall in the process? It would be the first in a good dozen generations-an entire light-sided family litter of cubs ending up in the snake's den. Such a thing hadn't happened since the Lovegoods under old Phineas Black. Did he have a chance of finally thumbing his nose at the Marauders and their supposed 'legacy'?

Yes. Yes he did. And it was all thanks to Lily.

He often wondered what life would have been like if he'd decided to go to Dumbledore first. Probably less physically painful for him-initially. Lily was _vindictive_ when she put her mind to it. And oh boy, did she _ever_ make Severus pay for all the various transgressions & betrayals over the years since that disastrous OWL exam day. His rectum still twitched when he thought about that. Still, the end result was probably better anyway. Lily was still alive, she led what appeared to be a happy life and Severus was finally free of that accursed blood debt James'd finagled out of him back in his sixth year. If he'd gone to Albus first, would the results have been different? Yes.

It was a risk that'd almost cost him his life, but one that he now felt vindicated in taking.

For who knew that Lily would raise such a brood? Cunning, wily dangerous creatures most children may be, but her children were above average in that regard. James had utterly spoiled his offspring apparently, teaching them all about the marauders and their creed from an early age, with anecdotes interspersed by both Sirius and Remus. But, at the end of the day, James was an Auror first and foremost, which meant long hours and little private time, which left his children in the hands of Severus's first and only friend. And lo & behold, Lily Potter's children turned out to be such vicious and cunning little bastards that the hat shivered when either of her darling little angels came too close to it. He always said that she was prime Slytherin material if he'd ever seen it. The Dark Lord had agreed as well. Thrice defied, never died? The Dark Lord'd been sure that the mudblood was cheating, which he admired, but he didn't know how she managed to do so, which drove him spare.

If there ever was one advantage to fighting Gryffindorks the Dark Lord enjoyed, it was their transparency. It didn't take a legilimens to figure out what they were going to do and why they were going to do it. But Lily'd never been such an easy soul to read, as the Dark Lord found out.

And Snape severely doubted that, should the Dark Lord return as Albus believed he would, the Death Eaters would have an easy time _finding_ a Potter child that didn't want to be found, their chances at actually successfully taking one down non-withstanding.

Slytherins, backed by the most Slytherin mudblood to ever walk the vaunted halls of Hogwarts, trained in the ways of the marauders as well as being mentored by the aforementioned gang's arch-nemesis, all utilising that training with a ruthless effectiveness that'd make Voldemort weep with envy should he ever be around to see it.

It was, truly, a thing of beauty. One Severus stood to capitalise upon with his usual flair for opportunity. As long as Lily let him, of course. Wouldn't do to waste this chance at _revenge_ because he'd angered the one person who could and would tear his heart out just by looking at him.

* * *

Halloween was, Hermione'd found to her surprise, boring. The animated skeletons, the bats, the cauldrons and the pumpkins were somehow less scary when animated than when hidden in the shadowy alcove of a silent house. It was all so very disappointing. She'd expected at least one Lovecraft creature to make an appearance somewhere, but nothing more exciting than the enchanted shadow lantern or three was on offer. Harry had told her, but would she listen? No. She was probably better off missing last year's festivities, to be honest. At least she'd gotten a good scare out of _that_-oh god, it's official. She'd been around Potters for too long. Ron had warned her about this. Apparently, it was some kind of Potter bloodline, to turn any they interacted with to their side with minimal effort. At least, that's what the twins said-and they should know, given how often one of the Potters could be seen secretly conversing with either of the twins at any given point in time. How Harry'd managed to attract the attention of the self-styled Marauders' Heirs, Hermione really didn't want to know. Yet.

Still, the food was nice. Not quite as good as it was for the rest of the year, though. Pumpkin juice was one thing. Pumpkin everything? Not so appetising.

She looked up, frustrated. Was there anything to do? She'd already eaten, there was little in the way of interesting talk happening and she was pretty sure that her transfiguration essay wouldn't write itself in her absence. Not this time, at least. Ah, Harry was eyeing her from the Slytherin table. Correction; he was eyeing her, Ron and Neville if the other two's expressions of frustrated decision-making was anything to go by. He smiled upon catching her eye. He was up to something. Decision time: to approach or not to approach? That was the question. Well, she was a Gryffindor as the boy never failed to point out when he found something to feel derisive about, so the answer was simple: charge ahead.

She got up and went over to the Slytherin table. Most of them hissed at her, but Hermione ignored them. If they thought they were being scary enough to drive her away, they clearly hadn't been exposed to the Potter smirk often enough yet. Especially not when it came from matching faces. Potters were scarier than the history books suggested.

"What is it?" She asked the siblings imperiously.

"A proposal. I have an, ah, adventure I'd like to go on, yet find myself bereft of brave and selfless companions to drag with me." Harry stated in a tone of voice that could grease up a car engine.

"Is it fatal?" Best to ask that now rather than when a werewolf's about to bite your arm off.

"No, but it is in keeping with the Halloween spirit." Rose said.

"Okay, I'm in." Hermione stated. Harry smirked.

"Great. Bring the book-ends with you."

"Where are we going, by the way?" She asked, internally cursing herself for not asking that question sooner.

"To celebrate the death of a Gryffindor, of course. He's ever so eager to meet the Golden Trio too." Harry smirked. "I couldn't bear to disappoint the poor spectre."

* * *

Hermione's hair frizzed with static electricity. That utter unmitigated bastard of a Potter was sitting down with Moaning Myrtle and sweet-talking her while Ron, Neville and her were being swamped by ghosts. Ghosts that seemed to leak ectoplasm _everywhere_. Harry was going to pay, oh yes.

"That's it!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm heading back to the tower guys. See you tomorrow."

"Me too. I've had enough." Neville said after witnessing Sir Cadogan's seventh attempt at getting a rise out of Sir Nick. "Hermione, care for an escort?"

"I'll escort you." Harry offered. "It's getting late and Rose is no doubt champing at the bit to get home by now." Rose just glared at her idiot brother. Honestly, playing mind games with Gryffindors. Can't he grow up and play with the big boys already?

"Fine, let's just go."

The four kids left the party and were on their way down the stairs when the two Potters stiffened and started running like their lives were on the line. Hermione and Neville, puzzled and slightly wary of their colleagues' panicked behaviour, followed as best they could.

Finally, they arrived on the second floor and stopped when they saw a petrified Mrs. Norris and a worrying message written in blood on the wall.

"You know," Hermione said quietly "I wish whoever'd done that had actually done the decorations in the great hall." The Potters turned to stare at their bushy-haired kinda friend. "What? It looks great! Oh, honestly." She huffed.

* * *

Lily poked at the petrified cat. "Hmm, strange. It seems she's alive in there."

Filch looked on anxiously. "She's... not dead?"

"No." She frowned. "Not dead, but not completely alive either. Suspended animation, I reckon."

"Thank god." The elderly squib caretaker said in relief. "And the brats?" He asked viciously. "_They_ had something to do with it, I'm sure. Let me break out the instruments of truth, headmaster! I'll-"

"Do no such thing." Snape interjected. "Since none of them are capable of casting spells of such magnitude," _yet, but I'm working on that_ "I find it rather doubtful that they were actively responsible for such an unfortunate occurrence. However, they were found to be out of bounds after hours and, since two of them belong to _my_ house, _I_ shall be taking over their... punishment." Lily snorted. "You four, report to me for assignment tomorrow afternoon. Do not be any later than five. Dismissed!" The four children didn't move. "Has the excitement of the night rendered you deaf as well as dumb? I said _Dis-Missed_!" They skedaddled.

"Severus..." Albus said in pain. "Do you have to be so acerbic to the students?"

"Yes."

Lily laughed. "Don't worry headmaster. That's just Severus being Severus. He never changes."

"Oh, I do. It's just that nobody notices."

"How?"

"I add enchantments to my cloak every so often." Severus shrugged. "Apart from that, wouldn't you like to know?"

"Not particularly Severus." Minerva said from her seat in the corner, making a face. "Albus, any ideas on what could have caused this?"

"Hmm..." The elderly headmaster mused as he stroked his beard. "I do believe that someone has found the chamber of secrets again."

"Bugger." Lily cursed. "Guess we're in for another interesting year then."

"Indeed." Severus agreed, mentally compiling a list of possible heirs in his head.

* * *

"A defence club?" Ron asked. "Really? That's the best they could come up with?"

"You have a better idea?" Neville asked. "Because if you do, I'm sure professor Potter would like to hear it."

"Explosives-making classes?" Ron offered. "Seamus Finnegan for the making of them, the twins for the setting of them?"

"That idea's... actually good." Hermione said, impressed. "Maybe you _should _tell professor Potter about that idea."

"Tell me what?" A feminine voice said, amused.

"About teaching the students how to set traps to catch the monster?" Neville said, covering for his friend's embarrassed blush. "It has merit as an idea, right?"

"Not if you intend to blow up the school to catch the monster." The defence professor offered. "I reckon the headmaster would be rather upset. He's somewhat attached to this place, after all."

"So why duelling, then?" Hermione asked. "It doesn't exactly strike me as being useful in this situation either. I'm just better at being polite, is all."

"Modest to boot, too..." Lily shrugged. "It's an entertaining distraction, it teaches you valuable fighting skills and it's something I was planning on doing anyway."

"Ah. And what do you propose we do for monster-hunting studies?" Ron asked hopefully.

"To leave it to the grown-ups. We know about as much about hunting monsters as you, except we have more experience with dealing with our own ignorance, okay?"

"Fine." Hermione huffed. "Just be careful, okay? Harry'd be quite put out if you got hurt."

"Why, Hermione!" Lily said with a smile. "That almost sounded like you cared about me."

"Well, yes, I do. I wouldn't get any rest if he moped around after that."

* * *

"Alright, settle down you lot!" Lily shouted over the din of gossiping students. "Welcome, one and all, to the first meeting of the Hogwarts duelling club!"

The sound dimmed as everyone turned to the platform. "Glad I finally have your attention. Today, we're going to start off relatively easily with one or two exhibition duels and controlled one-on-one confrontations. This is my assistant, Professor Snape, with whom I'll be conducting the introductory exhibition to give you a feel for what will eventually be expected of you by the time you leave Hogwarts. Severus, if you will..." She fell silent as the man walked onto the platform, formal duelling robes and green & silver cape billowing behind him. "Bloody hell. You just _had_ to go all out didn't you?"

"What can I say?"

"Oh, I don't know. 'Sorry Lily, I couldn't resist', perhaps?"

Severus snorted. "Please. Who's the one wearing a dragon hide hit-wizards' uniform?"

Lily smiled. "A relic of the good old days."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Glad one of us enjoyed them."

"Come on Sev." She smirked darkly. "We _never_ met in the field, did we? Want to see what you missed out on?"

Snape scowled. "Alright _Potter_. Have it your way, then, and on your head be it."

They bowed to each other before drawing their wands. "Pay attention class. There will be a quiz on this later. _Expelliarmus_!"

"_Protego! Reducto! Bombarda!"_

"_Protego Aegis! Rumpitur! Densaugeo Maximus!" _Lily shouted before sending a silent string of hexes Snape's way. He retaliated with his own, equally silent volley of spellfire. The two explosive hexes went wild, whizzing up to the rafters and detonating violently in a flash of white & blue light.

Then, the battle truly began. The atmosphere began to charge up with static electricity as hexes, jinxes and curses whizzed through the air, splashing against the solid stone walls of the hall and giving off sparks and arcs of chaotic electricity.

The two figures, one clad in scale armour and the other in green & silver leather overalls, danced around the incoming stream of deadly light as they attacked, counter-attacked, shielded and dodged.

Then, unexpectedly, a streak of yellow & blue spells met in mid-flight and connected the two dueller's wands. Snape immediately moved back his hand, drawing the stream along like a fisherman drew his rod back when wheeling in a pernicious fish. Lily simply gripped her wand with the other hand and grit her teeth.

A ball of green fire took shape as the two combatants poured their will into powering the spell. The surface of it boiled like the sun, releasing a corona of pure magical essence around the room. Lightning cascaded outwards, earthing itself into the platform's stilts and cracking the flagstone floors. Chunks of masonry went flying into the crowd, muffled shouts of _protego_ protecting the younger students from harm as the two figures engages in their battle of wills. The ball pulsed before turning the shade of green that had plagued the nightmares of generations of wizards around the world.

"Bloody shit!" Harry swore. "Mom's overdoing it again."

"Shut up. This is a beautiful sight to behold." Rose reprimanded her big brother absently, entranced by the glowing ball of energy.

"Oh yeah? And are you in that much of a hurry to find out what's going to happen if that ball touches Mom's wand?"

"It's not a _kedavra_ brother. Besides, this is a demonstration duel. Keep your pants on please, I have no wish to see what's underneath."

"Easy for you to say. You're wearing a skirt."

"Prat."

"And don't you forget it mini-me."

Lily ignored everything around her-the sounds, the smells, the sights fell before her as she felt her occlumency shift from protecting her mind to focusing it. All that mattered, right there, right then, was beating Snape at his own game. Getting into a battle of wills with a master of mind magics was not an optimal idea. She had no doubt whatsoever that that was exactly what Severus'd been aiming for all along-not hitting her directly, but rather luring her into just this kind of a situation. He probably thought that this was the easiest way to defeat his opponent, since his natural talents gave him the necessary edge to win any such fight. However, he was about to be _sorely_ disappointed.

The war had not been kind to Lily. Secrets thought buried often proved fatal. Betrayal lurked at every corner. She'd been forced to run and abandon good friends more than once in battle all in the name of her as-yet unborn child. She'd been forced to hide from the darkest Lord to grace British shores in over fifty years knowing that there was a traitor in her husband's friends' midst.

Occlumency had been her lifeline in more than one way. Thus, she'd spent hours upon hours perfecting the art. After the war, she kept herself in shape in all the myriad ways that'd seen her through those darkest of times-there was never a magic too boring to learn, never a secret too small to keep close to her heart, never a situation too unlikely to prepare for. She had mastered the art of shielding, hiding and organising her mind to perfection. Now was the time to use the abilities she'd spent years sharpening into a fine blade to their fullest extent. Her concentration was fully on the stream of magics she was channelling.

Now, to _push_.

The ball wobbled uncertainly, almost ponderously swinging to and fro as Lily went on the attack and Severus retaliated. The streams shifted colour erratically, from blue to red to green to white to black and back to blue. Rainbow hues suffused the air as the ball of light blasted off coronas of magic that no longer could interact with the others.

The air shifted, causing rain, hail and snow to fall on the stunned crowd of onlookers even as the lightning bolts grew in size and the puddles of water coalescing on the floor turned into hot ice. Severus could feel his will shaking underneath the iron control of his mind. He could see Lily across the platform from him, a mask made of granite in place as the witch focused solely on the task of beating one of her oldest friends. He smiled. _Oh my, Lily_._ No wonder we had a hard time finding the remains of Bole senior if _this_ was what he faced that day_. He pushed back, knowing that the best he could do was delay the outcome until he found a way to overcome her defences. If he managed to detect a weakness in the next minute, victory was his. If not, then he would be in for a very unpleasant defeat indeed.

The ball started to rotate along the stream, expanding and contracting like a heart. Lily bit her lower lip as she kept up the stream of cerulean fire her will was channelling through her wand. She was winning, she knew it, but her magic was edging ever towards the greyer side of intent as time passed. That needed to be rectified post-haste. The aim of the game was to offer an instructional demonstration of what a duel was really like, not kill her opponent. She shifted gears, pulling her will back from its programmed route and setting it down a safer path.

After a short, yet infinitely long length of time, Severus went down on one knee. Lily focused on the ball, desperately trying to keep it from containing anything that might maim either of them. Snape, sensing the intent through his connection, followed suit gratefully. Finally, Lily gave a final roar and threw her will through the stream. The size of her beam momentarily doubled itself before hitting the ball. As if hit by a troll's club, the compact ball of violent magics raced down the beam and connected with Snape's wand. Which blew up in a violent display of pyrotechnics and an earth-shattering _boom_. Snape groaned, clutching his smoking hand. Thank Merlin he'd decided to wear the dragon-hide dueller's gloves for this!

"I win." Lily's perky exclamation offered into the silence of the hall.

"That. Was. Awesome!" Ginevra Weasley exclaimed. The hall erupted in cheers.

Harry just smirked at his head of house. That'd teach the greasy man to mess with his mom. What was disturbing, however, was that Snape was smirking back at him. What was he up to?

* * *

"-Next up, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Boys, please take to the stage." Lily announced.

Harry was miffed. He had hoped that his mother'd listened when he asked to duel Hermione. No such luck, it seemed. Stuck with the ponce. He sighed. Maybe there were worse adversaries to face, but they were few and far between.

"Hey potty!" The blonde brat shouted as he ascended the stairs. "Ready to get pounded into the ground, bastard?"

Oh, he did _not_ just pull that one. "When your father hears about this..." He said, smirking at the red hue that coloured Malfoy's cheeks. That's right, you stupid little Gryffie. Get angry. Hand me the edge right away.

The Malfoy heir scowled darkly. "Big words from a bastard half-blood."

"Indeed. I am pleasantly surprised that you understood them. Being receiving help from Hermione, have we?"

"As if I'd ever lower myself to _your_ level. Consorting with Gryffindors? Squibs? Mudbl-"

"Hey!" He scowled. Nobody, _nobody_ insulted people that way in front of him and got away with it.

The Malfoy heir smirked. "I'm going to enjoy ending you, you uppity bastard."

"Same, you jumped-up, inbred ponce."

"That's enough." The icy tones of their head of house rang out. "Potter, Malfoy, you are members of my house. I expect you to behave as such."

"Sorry professor." Harry grit out reluctantly. "Can we get on with this farce please? I have dinner to catch, and ferret seems to be on the menu tonight."

Snape glowered at him, as did mom. Ooh boy. "Indeed. If both of you have finished exchanging pleasantries then, I guess we can begin. Bow! Assume positions! Begin!"

"_Serpensortia_!" Draco screamed out, jabbing his wand forward in a violent arc. Harry's muttered _stupefy_ went unheard as an almighty _bang_ echoed across the platform and a snake went flying into the middle of the arena. Unfortunately, the spell went wide, robbing Harry of yet another easy victory. Damn.

"_Apes! Why have you summoned me? Where am I?"_ The reptile asked in a rage.

Harry laughed. "Draco, Draco, Draco. A talking snake? Really? Is that the best you can do?" he taunted as he surreptitiously cast a _protego_ under his breath. Malfoy and pretty much everyone else stared at him in confusion. "_Hello little snake. Do you understand me?"_

"_Ah, a speaker then? I should have known. Why have you summoned me, young ape?"_

"_It wasn't me who summoned you, you know._" He drawled out. "_It was the one with yellow hair who did that."_

The snake turned his head to stare at Draco. Draco who was staring at Harry in horror for some reason. "_He did it? He _dared_? Insolent little Ape! I shan't stand for it!"_ The enraged serpent hissed angrily as it moved into attack position in front of the Malfoy heir-who was pissing his pants. Oh, this was too good.

"It seems, Draco, that your talking snake is a tad angry with you. _Oh, don't bite him, by the way, he's not worth it_. I suggest you apologise, Draco. Right now."

"M-my Lord, forgive me!" The blonde boy squealed as the snake twisted itself around his calf. "I-I had no idea!"

"Oh please, Draco, you heard him. He won't bite, though he wants to."

"Y-you're too kind, milord!" The boy whimpered. This was getting better and better. A Malfoy addressing a lowly ophid in the same way his ancestors'd addressed their beloved Dark Lords for generations. Draco'd never hear the end of this one.

"I suggest you banish him back to where he came from, by the way. He seems a tad, ah, _miffed_ at your audacity."

"Milord, could you please do it for me? I-I dropped my wand."

"Excuse me?" He asked in confusion. Why was he asking the snake to banish himself back to wherever the git'd conjured it from? "Malfoy. What are you playing at you blithering idiot! Get your wand back and _banish_ the damn thing! Or do you really want the snake to try?"

"Y-yes milord!" The boy squeaked out as he valiantly tried to reach for his wand.

"Oh, for the love of-_can you let go of the boy please?_" Harry adressed the snake directly. "_It seems he's having entanglement problems._"

"_I shall, but no delays! I have children to care for, you know. Don't have all bloody day._"

"Get a move on Malfoy, your Lord's getting impatient." He said, chuckling at the snake's tone.

He'd honestly never seen Malfoy move quicker than the blonde git did when the snake loosened its hold on his leg. A muttered counterspell later and the snake was gone. Draco fell to his knees, inborn instincts kicking into overdrive as he pleaded for his life. "Milord, forgive me! I have failed you most grievously."

Harry looked at the blonde boy in shock. "Excuse me? Malfoy, the snake is gone now, you don't have to make yourself look like an idiot... much."

"Milord? I don't understand."

Oh shit. He hadn't been adressing the snake at all. He'd been adressing _Harry._ Which meant that there was something Harry was missing... Shit. Fuck. Bloody damn it.

"That snake wasn't a talking one, was it?" Rose's voice cut through the silence, telling him that she'd gotten the hint too. "None of the others could hear it, could they?"

"Rosie? What do you mean?" Lily's voice asked in confusion. "It was just a talking snake, is all. Sure, the others are reacting a bit strangely to seeing a talking snake, but that's about it."

"Lily." Snape whispered in shock. "Your daughter's right. All we could hear was hissing. From the snake and your son."

"Oh." Lily said in wonder. "Does that mean that I'm a parseltongue then? And that you both are too." She added distractedly.

Harry sighed. "Yes mom, this does indeed mean that we can talk to snakes."

"Why, isn't that grand. That's a great thing, right Sev? Sev?"

The man looked at his oldest and only true friend and thought of what to say "...Maybe?" was all he came up with. Pity.

The loud _slap_ of Hermione's facepalming heralded the start of the pandemonium to come. _Potters_.


	21. The love one finds in Hell

Today's entrance into the tropes!series is a break from SWAC to bring you the following trope: **Shipping**! You won't find a single genre of fanfiction that has more followers, detractors and writers than the romance story between two characters that never stood a chance in canon. For a lot of people, the shipping thing actually defined their entry into fanfiction. A friend of mine was once told "Take character A & character B and have them fuck each other. That's fanfiction.". There is literally no bigger genre, trope or category in the fanfiction world than this one.

So now we get to a classic of the genre in the HP community: The Harry/Hermione ship. There are entire sites devoted to this ship (portkey, anyone?), there are more fanfics of this pairing than there are of the Harry/Ginny ones and you literally cannot read HP fanfiction for longer than ten minutes without encountering at least a reference to it.

This is a result of a writing session that started at 11pm and finished at 9am. It's in first person perspective, was written as the author pretty much went back & forth between this and one or two HP fanfics that used this ship as a main plot device. For the record, I am totally biased since this is my one and only ship of choice. I don't give a shit about relationships in fanfics in general, but I will, when given a choice between a story that says Harry P/ Hermione G and/or Harry P/ Ginevra W, go for the H/HR one first. There is literally no other ship in no other fandom anywhere that I ascribe to except for this single one.

But honestly? Writing a fic about it is a peculiar experience. In first person perspective, it's bloody insane. I'm _never_ doing that again.

Now to the story. What I was trying to do was play Harry as completely straight and as close to the canon version as I could get. As a result, he's not a nice person and it shows. It's pretty much the stage where he realises that he's in love with his bushy-haired best friend. But here's the rub-they're in the tent. Ron's gone. They're both at their wit's end when they realise what they feel for each other. I tried to make it as bleak & depressing as I possibly could because fuck sunshine & unicorns and screw the epilogue with a tungsten-tipped warhead.

The angsty bastard and the bossy girl getting together is not a smooth ride at all. To portray it as such is to do the flaws and uniqueness of the characters a huge injustice. They're both stubborn, passionate & vicious in their own ways and are incredibly thick when it comes to standard human emotions. Ship Canon Harry and Canon Hermione and the pairing becomes the stuff of bloody legends. I can totally see both of them turning violent at the drop of a dime. They're both anti-social, isolated and persecuted by the world in general with crappy childhoods that didn't see much in the way of positive emotional development. Add sex, hormones and kids into that mix and the world around them won't like what's happening to it. Rowling probably didn't want to have those two end up together because having the epilogue open with "platform 9 and ¾ was on fire" may have sent the wrong message.

This fic tries to captivate the corrosive bleakness of the funk they find themselves in and the turmoil they feel when Love strikes two people who know they've never really felt anything like it before. If it'd turn into an actual fic, bear in mind the ending of book seven. This would not be a happy ending for the pair. They may still be together and alive by the end of it, but the damage Harry's sacrifice would have inflicted on Hermione would've been immense. That is if she didn't decide to follow him into the clearing to confront Voldemort. Compared to their canon counterparts, the two'd end up as bitter, tainted souls hiding the sheer despair of what they'd seen and what they'd done behind the mask of a placid husband and wife couple. Yeah, not much in the way of sunshine & rainbows, though love does have its place in it.

**TL;DR**: I tried to write this to be as depressing and/or angry as I could. Not sure if I succeeded.

It's written from Harry's POV only. Sorry, but trying to write it from Hermione's POV'd probably the fastest path to braindeath at this stage.

By the way, contains some real vague descriptions of sex. It has one instance of the word tits in it, that's about it. Just so you know.

* * *

I am a blind man. So very, very blind as to what was right in front of me all along. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

I spent so long looking for a way to have a family to call my own. Friends that wouldn't think me a freak. A future that didn't look like it ended with me in a coffin. A life.

And honestly? I found all that and more. Right now, though, I find myself _glad_ that I've thrown it all away.

I've had time to think, see. Six years of my life spent fighting the good fight, day in, day out. And for what? All I have to show for it right now is a mouldy tent that reeks of cat's piss, some outdoorsy furniture and a bed where my former friend was sleeping away the morning. And what did I pay for it? Everything I had spent so long building up, gone in an eye blink.

Hmm, maybe I should start from the beginning. Trust me, I need to for this.

I met Ron at the tender age of eleven. We were kids being sent off to a special school to learn magic. I really didn't care much for him. He was every inch the kind of boy that I disliked back in primary school-loud, brash, happy, not very smart. I'd seen plenty of his type before. Bullies to the man in the end. Not as bad as Malfoy turned out to be, but the red-head looked like he was on the fast track for it back then. But he had brothers who were alright and a sister that harboured a crush on me, so I decided to stick around.

That'd been a mistake I'd come to thank myself for making. For, if it hadn't been for him, I would've never had the excuse for approaching a buck-toothed, bushy-haired bookworm that went by the name of Granger. She would've never been threatened by a troll, me & Ron would've never turned up to save the day and she would've just become another anonymous face in the crowd, looking on as Potter once again spat death in the face and tried to survive the experience. Maybe she would've ended up tutoring me in some random subject at some stage, but I doubted we'd have become friends.

And I, like an utter idiot, accepted that friendship at face value and never looked any further than that. For, you see, I already had a plan to get myself a family; the Weasleys. The youngest daughter was hopelessly infatuated with me, her brothers took me in instead of pushing me away and their mother, well, _mothered_ me. It was all so easy to just wriggle into the giant family and make myself at home. What can I say? I up and killed a man with my bare hands by the end of that year, I needed _some_ comfort. Who was I going to turn to? The Dursleys? The fuckers barely fed me as it was.

My plan took shape in the summer before second year; I'd spend as much time as I could with Ron and his siblings and gradually responded to ickle Gin-gin's interest to fan the flames, as it were. I barely noticed my brunette friend tagging along, really. She nagged, worried about homework and generally rode herd on us so that we could worry about fun things, like quidditch and dangerous monsters trying to kill us. Saving Ginny by the end of that year didn't hurt the plan either, _bien au contraire_. But the victory'd been a bittersweet one, what with Hermione ending up in the hospital wing. I dropped by as often as I could, though I didn't know why at the time.

Summer that year was, apart from the Dursleys, great fun. The leaky cauldron, the burrow... happy memories all around. So what if a mass murderer was after me? Between Malfoy and Voldemort, that queue was already getting pretty long. But that was also the year when the first chink in my plan appeared. I was on track with my 'instant family just add romance' idea, but the way Hermione kept butting heads with Ron was driving me up the wall. What was she thinking? Didn't she realise that making an enemy out of his first male friend would end up doing to their friendship? That, and I felt empty, hollow after acting like someone my age towards her for so long. She'd done the right thing, yes, but she had done so behind my back. It was around that time that I realised that she genuinely cared for me in a non-adventure/suicide by idiocy-related fashion. And _something_ I'd never felt before started stirring in my chest. About the only thing I noticed back then was that, as the year progressed, Ginny looked less and less appealing to my eyes. In my defence, affectionate feelings is not my forte. Faking it? Yes, I am a past master at acting like I'm happy, sad, excited etcetera. Actually experiencing these feelings? Take a fucking guess.

Plus, we travelled time to save a wrongfully imprisoned convict and defeat an army of demons together. That's a special bond in anyone's book, right there. Says something that, while exciting, that wasn't the bit that brought us the closest.

No, that honour went to year four. I shall forever remember that year as the point at which I realised the value of having a plan B. Why? Because Ron got jealous and, in a fit of pique, trashed three years' worth of friendship in the blink of an eye. Everybody else followed suit, shunning me and making me wish that I'd found a way to keep the basilisk alive so that I could teach these ungrateful fucks a thing or two about the value of loyalty.

Hermione, however, stuck by my side. You'd think that I'd be clued in by now, but no, mister Brain had other ideas. In my defence, I was a fourteen-year-old boy who was about to face horrors that regularly killed highly skilled magical athletes (mathletes? Meh, whatever), so I still didn't pay as much conscious attention to her as I should have. This was also the point where I discovered just how incredibly attractive she'd turn out to be in a few years. Ron came back, but I'd received the message loud and clear; either bend over backwards to avoid a repeat or have an alternative handy. Ron was just fourteen at the time, so cut him some slack. Dude was probably worried I'd drag him into a wacky lethal adventure to do with the tournament, which is ironic because _guess what happened_? And he came back too, don't forget that. But I remembered the lesson well.

Year five? Fuck year five, I'm skipping it. About the only good thing to happen that year was the DA. That, and discovering just how hot an angry Hermione could be. Nothing else really positive happened that year. Me? Suck at spellcasting? Eat shit Bellatrix.

Year six was when everything went even further downhill. Plans A and B flew out the window courtesy of Ron's sudden attraction to Hermione, a potions book and a boiling frustration that's been simmering beneath the surface for years. Hermione had a go at me every other hour. I had a go at her right back. She went and kind of hooked up with Ron while I took Ginny for a test drive. Bye bye virginity, hello plan C (aka plan A version 2.0). Then Dumbledore died, sanity was restored, plan C got put on the backburner and we were off camping.

Which brings us to year seven. This year. Late autumn in the forest of Dean. The first snows have already fallen, the cold season's looking like a right record-breaker. Ron left us a week ago. Ginny's fucking every male she can get her hands on in some fit of revenge, methinks (thank you map) and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the girl that's sleeping beneath its covers, wondering about what I've just done.

If you'd asked me at any point in time of the last six years who my choice for love of my life was, it'd have been about any other girl but her. Funny how things work out, huh?

Now, I can no longer kid myself into thinking Ginny'd be enough for me.

All the worldly goods I'm not carrying on me have probably been confiscated by now, vault included. Without the Weasleys to speak for me, I'd never get them back if I survived, victorious or not.

Nobody knows where we are, what we're doing and how to assist us.

Ron, even if he does come back, probably won't be staying for that long after I've had a talk with him. If he survives, that is.

The Dark Lord wants my head on a silver platter and has the numbers to get it done.

I've screwed the pooch big time. I'm dead. Extremely dead. I will never have a future. I will never have a family. I will never live to see my next birthday. I have the life expectancy of a patient suffering through the final stages of terminal lung cancer.

And I don't give a shit. Because I just found out that I don't want any of that, never did. I don't want a life. I don't want a family. I don't want a job. I don't want to live to see myself go wrinkly and grey.

I want _her_!

I am in love with Hermione Jane Granger, my best and now probably former friend in the whole wide world. We're so fucking screwed it's not funny.

* * *

It all started yesterday morning. She was bawling her eyes out as she sat at the table, her tears smudging the ink on the parchment in front of her. Every now and then, she'd sniffle. I could almost hear the _Ron, Ron, why Ron_ she keeps repeating in her sleep, over and over again.

And I've had it up to here with this _bullshit_. When we're on the move, she's okay. It's like the old days back in fifth year-I just have to look her in the eyes and I know exactly what she wants me to do, where we're going to go and how we're going to get there. We're synchronised at a level beyond basic speech, we anticipate each other's moves and what we cannot anticipate we pre-empt with the ease of long practice. To fill the silence, she plies me with anecdotes concerning her research-the hallows, horcruxes, what Riddle got up to after World War 2- she spouted off information left & right. I let her. She needed the distraction.

The trouble invariably starts as we're setting the ward line. She hesitates, lingers and fumbles as she's casting the spell. That shit's dangerous-wards are an incredibly precise combination of charms, enchantments and sometimes even runes that backfire spectacularly should you mis-cast them even in the slightest.

Cooking time's okay, but she randomly starts crying at the oddest bloody times... Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if I could actually have a shower by suspending her from the ceiling feet pointing upwards and showing her a quidditch magazine.

Then, there's watch time. She probably doesn't realise it, but she dozes off more often than not. Merlin knows the number of heart attacks I'd gotten when awakening to an empty tent and the pained moaning of my best friend coming from the dark forest because she fell asleep on watch duty and got mugged by yet another Ron-related nightmare.

If I have to go through this charade during the rest of this bloody hunt, then I'm quitting and handing myself over to Tommy-Boy. Watching her waste away like this... I'd rather die. I never thought that there'd come a day where I wished Cho was around. She was slightly less soggy despite her boyfriend ending up six feet under courtesy of Voldemort, with yours truly playing a peripheral role, and would probably find a more entertaining way to pass the time than mope in her cereal.

The date was day eight of Ron deciding to pull a Pettigrew on us. Autumn was on its way out the door and Winter was coming. I've barely had any bloody sleep and she hasn't either. I look at the mug of luke-warm coffee in front of me. Then, I look over to Hermione. Cup. Hermione. Cup. Hermione. Ah, fuck it. It's not like I'll get any peace by ignoring her. I've been ignoring her for five days straight now, hoping against hope that she'd cry herself out, sit down and be the Hermione I knew and, uh, cherished back in Hogwarts. I stood up and went over to her.

"Hey bushy." I said, running my hand through her frizzy hair. "We need to talk."

"Harry?" She asked as if surprised to hear my voice. Ow, that's painful. Didn't realise that we hadn't actually talked to each other in almost two days. Her ever-so-sharp eyes catches my hidden wince. "Oh, honestly." She sighed. "What is it?"

Okay, time to channel dear old dad and be a bit more of an insensitive prat than usual. "Ron's gone. He's not coming back. And you're killing yourself."

Now I've seen a lot of things that'd scarred me over the years. Watching Hermione's expression as she realised that yes, I'd just pulled a Gryffindor conversation opener on her is in the top five of things I hope never to see again. Which is when she starts scowling. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Then we won't. Pack up, we're leaving."

"What? And where would we be going?" she asked me, flustered by the sudden change in direction this conversation was taking.

"I was thinking Spain, personally. Always wanted to visit Majorca..."

She laughed for the first time since Ron'd left. Okay, so it might be a bit on the hollow & bitter side, but I'll take what I get. "Oh please. Look, stop wasting my time. You have work to do, I have work to do."

Showtime. "Hermione..." I huff. "I'm being serious here. We should leave."

"What?" She asked, open-mouthed. "No way! I'm not leaving our friends behind to _die_, Harry James Potter! That's why _I'm _here, with _you_ instead of with Ron."

"Then let's _talk_ then."

"Talk about what, exactly?"

"The fact that you're not eating anymore, perhaps? That you get three hours of sleep a night? That you've been reading the same page since yesterday? That, night after night, you scream Ron's name in your sleep? The fact that you're slowly killing yourself? Pick one to start off with, please."

"Oh, as if you could talk locket-boy! How long have you been wearing that horcrux around your neck?"

"Three days."

"Then take it off!"

"No. Because if I take it off, _you_ have to put it on."

She fell silent. "And why is that a problem?"

I roll my eyes. "Look yourself in a mirror and tell me that you can manage this thing for more than five minutes with a straight face, I dare you." More silence. "You're wasting away in front of me. Get some bloody sleep. Eat some damn food. Forget Ron until we meet up with him, okay? A few days' rest won't kill us."

Hermione looked at me with wet eyes before moving her gaze elsewhere. "Alright Harry. Have it your way. Some rest, then we can talk as much as you want to." The look she gives me as I walk over to the camping stove was one I'd never seen on her face before.

* * *

I don't rightly remember much of the rest of that day. We were both inside the tent enjoying the downtime a little. Hermione read through a Heinlein paperback and I wrote a few letters to people that were no longer with me. Cedric, Hedwig, Albus... Eh, I have weird hobbies. Plus, it helps keep my mind from falling apart.

Then nightfall came and I just sat there, looking at her. She was getting more and more uncomfortable, which was kind of the point. She absolutely hated it when people beat around the bush. Finally, she screeched "_What_?" at me.

"Are you ready to talk now?"

"No."

"Come on now. Something's bugging you and-" _it's not all Ron "-_it's not just Ron." I add, tacking the insight onto the end of that sentence. Where'd that come from? Pretty sure my mind was as heavily occluded as I could make it now.

My friend looked at me with a startled look. Ah, so something else was going on in that brain of hers."Your point?" I twitch my lips into a smile.

"You need someone to talk to. It really helps. _I_ should know."

She's oddly silent once more, probably judging my sincerity and intentions. She had that uncanny ability to completely ignore any dodge you put in her way and head straight for the truth if she had the motive to do so. Lying never works for long when she and I are involved. Especially to each other. She narrowed her eyes, telling me that she suspected me of something. In truth, I probably am, but I don't know what I'm thinking with regards to her right now. Still, she gives a small nod and bows her head. "I'm scared, Harry." She says in a broken mewl.

Join the club.

* * *

Ron was the heart of our little trio. If life got you down? Ron'd make a wildly inappropriate remark, a crass joke or provide an insight that hinted at just how intelligent he actually was. He was never one for books, but if you told him what the information was and why you needed it, he had the uncanny ability to approach it from an angle that I'd never have thought of, not in a million years, and make it fit into the plan/puzzle/solution you were reading up on it for. If the going got tough? Ron was right there, either behind you or leading the charge. Needed someone to listen to your sob stories? Ron was always there, the shoulder to cry on or the man to snap you out of your funk via the power of either quidditch or chess.

I saw him as what I believed to be a brother. Hermione had been in love with Ron for years. Or so she thought. I mean, if I have a hard time telling one of my emotions from another, how could others tell? She was probably in love with Ron in the same way I was in love with Ginny; there are feelings there, but I don't know what they are. Anger, rage, jealousy? That a good base for a relationship? Well, if the target of those emotions happens to be someone you're friends with and wouldn't mind waking up next to for the next century or so, then yes, according to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger these emotions were perfectly acceptable. Yes, yes, I know that there's barely any love there, but it _is_ there. If I wanted to, I _could_ settle with Ginny knowing that I'd come to love her in the fullness of time. Hermione could do the same if she wanted to.

_If_ she wanted to. Apparently, she no longer did. Because she didn't see Ron as the heart of their group anymore. Which meant that the things that'd spoken to her inner voice? No longer applied.

Hence her emotional problems. She wanted to forgive Ron. She wanted the Ron from before they'd set off back. But she couldn't. Now she was coming to terms with the fact that Ron, the loyal, brave and courageous Gryffindor, had up and left. The one she'd come to love was gone and she couldn't cope with that.

Then there were her parents. If she survived, what'd she tell them? Sorry Mommy and Daddy for erasing your memories of me, giving you a fake identity and sending you off to live in Australia as you'd always wanted to do?

And Voldemort. She felt bad that she wasn't helping people she knew fight the good fight and stay alive that much longer. I could relate.

And, finally me. Which is when things took an interesting turn.

* * *

"What do you mean, me?"

"I mean _you_ Harry! I can't figure out what you are to me!" She practically screeched.

Say what? "I'm Harry James Potter. You know, the friend that you've been loyal to for the past seven years?"

She scowled. "Don't say that. Ron-"

"Is off moping in the countryside. You, on the other hand, stayed."

Hermione shrugged. "I've got nowhere to go but forward." She said bitterly. Yes, bitter. What a nice way to describe this entire fucking mess of a conversation. "If Weasley thinks he can go back, well let him think that. I don't care"

"Much." I whispered.

"_I don't! _I don't care if he's alive anymore. I don't care if he's in Azkaban or a Death Eater camp or getting his face stuffed by Molly fucking Weasley." She breathed. "He's dead to me." She sighed again and ran her hands through her hair. "But I've not always been that good a friend to you either, remember?"

"You always had a reason, which is more than you can say for anyone else." I pointed out. "Whenever you did something, it was because there was little time or I wouldn't see sense until it was too late. Like with that potions b-"

"No more. I made my point last year." Ah, there came that pouty scowl of hers again. "If I have to repeat myself, Harry, you'll find out whether I've mastered some of the curses that were in there or not."

"Point being" Were my cheeks getting redder? "You've never truly abandoned me." Yes, yes they were.

"And that's just it, Harry. Why didn't I? That's what I'm having issues with."

This... wasn't making sense to me. "Beg your pardon?"

"Ever wonder why I never left?" She asked me with oddly intense eyes. There was worry, concentration and determination in there.

"Because you're a friend, perhaps?"

"So you can't really answer either?"

"No."

She nodded her head and stared at me in fear. Fear? What, had I failed some kind of litmus test to check if the horcrux'd taken over or something? Why is she-oh wait, she's standing up. She's coming over to me. She's bending over with that odd expression on her face.

"What are you to me, Harry James Potter?" She asked, breathing into my face. I just stare up at her in dumb confusion. "Let's find out together, shall we?"

She kissed me.

* * *

Kissing Cho'd been like having your face tied to a leaking garden hose.

Kissing Ginny'd been warm, fun and euphoric.

Kissing Hermione felt like drowning in a desert oasis.

My lungs felt inexplicably empty. My entire body went cold in shock before coming _alive_ with the familiar spike of adrenaline and Serotonin that preceded trouble. At the same time, Part of my brain burst into song. I was a junkie scoring my first fix in weeks. An alcoholic wandering into a pub after two decades at alcoholics anonymous. A fallen Angel brought back into the fold. A cop finally catching that serial killer after spending years tracking the bastard down. A starving orphan finding food (and I _know_ how that feels).

There was an explosion inside my head. Something that said 'hey, life's been pretty crap up until now, but I think we're on the up & up'. I loved it. I felt it recede. I wanted _more_. I deepened the kiss, pulling Hermione closer. Funnily, she didn't protest. The feeling came back with a vengeance.

I caressed her body. She ended up in my lap. My explorations got bolder. Hermione responded by shifting positions and moaning. I wanted to see more. I wanted to see her.

I didn't bother with accidental or deliberate magic. I just tore the garments off her as I went along. I'd _reparo _them later. Finally, skin. Even after three days without showering, she still smelled like a library in springtime.

I don't know if I was thinking at that stage. I don't _think_ I was. All I wanted was to get closer and closer to Hermione. She was doing the same thing.

I'd had sex with Ginny last year. It was nice. _Very_ nice. It'd sucked at the start, but we'd gotten better at it, two blind fools trying to navigate an art museum.

This was something very different. It was violent, painful and oh so satisfying, more tit-for-tat escalation than the physical expression of the love two people share for each other. There was simply too much of everything for it to be anything but the raw release of pent up emotions-the friendship, the dangers, the war, the eternal dancing around we were engaged in throughout our time at Hogwarts, all leading up to this point in time, all coming charging out of the gates at once.

I remembered the troll. I picked up the pace. Quirrell. She shifted around. Her petrified form in the infirmary. I bit her. Her mischievous smile as she showed me the time turner for the first time. She scratched me. The Yule Ball. I made her scream. Her patronus being conjured for the first time. She made me scream. Her injuries after the department of mysteries. The table collapsed underneath us.

It went on from there. We trashed the whole tent.

The squeals of delight were music to my ears. She enjoyed it! Ginny hadn't at first, but Hermione did from the word go. And my, wasn't she appreciative.

And then it came to an end in the same way it started. Silently, suddenly, unexpectedly. I felt the same shivering sting I had during the kiss and then ecstacy overcame me. It overcame her too, her intense brown eyes staring at mine right as the wave hit. They rolled into the back of her head as she moaned out loud.

We fell onto the bed, bodies entwined and kissing all the way. She didn't talk. I don't dare to.

The realisation of what she meant to me had struck. The ramifications were rippling through my view of the world, turning it upside down as everything I thought of as fact came into question. Then finally I realised what I wanted out of life. I wanted the girl in my arms. I wanted to grow old with her, have children with her, never leave her. I really didn't care if she reciprocated. Love grew in even the stalest soil. She'd come to love me in time if that's what it took. I was a very patient boy when I put my mind to it. I have earned the right to be selfish. But not to her. No, I had no right to claim her like that after everything we've done together. Again, do I care? No.

Is this what true love feels like? It's _sick_. Selfless and selfish at the same time. Plotting on how to ensnare her in your web even as you are passionately kissing her while the two of you were naked in bed. Manipulating her into choosing you. It was revolting and yet I wouldn't live without it now that I've found her.

Did she feel the same? That was a question I didn't dare ask, no matter the answer. Because if she gives me an answer, that's the answer. No takebacks, no changing your mind. I could sense that. If she really, truly loved me like I did her, what would we do? This was a war. Dying was ridiculously easy. If I lost her now, the world'd _burn_.

And if she didn't? Was I prepared for the long up-hill struggle of fending off suitors and nurturing her affection for me into something akin to what I feel for her? Could we keep on with this for a while, at least until the war ended? Or would I end up looking at Ron the same way Snape'd looked at my father? I didn't want to end up like that. Please Merlin no, I'd rather die by Voldemort's hand than live through that special kind of hell. As it stands, Ron and me are going to have _words_ next time we meet. Abandoning his friends is one thing. Abandoning Hermione? He'd pay-but not too much. I highly doubted even Ron could've snored his way through that racket.

I just hoped she shared my feelings to a degree. I'd lost a friend today. She was either going to end up as my wife or as an acquaintance. I wouldn't let us go back to being friends ever again. Too much history, too long a wait. Fuck pretending this never happened. I'd hate for it all to have been in vain though.

I take a break from kissing and look into her eyes. Awe, wonder, fear and anger, all in one gaze. She detects my hesitation and puts a finger to my lips. "Talk later." She says as she offered up one of her tits to my mouth. She always knows what I am thinking.

No wonder I love her.

* * *

**Epilogue of sorts:**

"Harry?" A voice asks in the darkest depths of a tent weathering an early snow-storm. I smile despite the butterflies flying around in my stomach. The tone reassures me somehow.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"I love you." She says, the lingering surprise of the realisation still audible in her voice after nearly a day's worth of time to digest it.

"Love you too."

"What are we going to do?" She's crying on my chest. I can feel the warm tears trickle all over. It's strangely arousing, which makes thinking hard.

"I don't know, love. I just don't know."

I sit there in the early morning, listening to the love of my life sob and know that at least some of those tears are tears of relief.

We'd found each other. And while all wasn't well, I knew that one day it'd be _spectacular_.

_A/N: And there you have it._


	22. Don't Fear The Reaper

Don't fear the Reaper

So I read Reptilia28's 'dark encore', which ends with the author exclaiming dismay over how what is arguably one of the more famous challenges in fanfiction (which he/she set) has devolved into a cliche-fest of epic proportions. Having read a number of them, I agree with that assessment. So I decided, hey, let's put a fresh spin on things! Some cliches, but not that many I hope.

* * *

"Well, thank fuck _that's_ over." A soft voice said in relief.

The man opened his eyes and promptly shut them again. _Bright_, _why was it so bright_? Slowly, he opened his eyes again and stared at his surroundings. He was in... a train station. A _white_ train station. What the hell?

"And you! Congratulations on fulfilling the prophecy."

He opened his mouth and let out a weak croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm sorry, what prophecy?"

"You know, _born to those who'd thrice defied him, born as the twelfth month dies_?"

A memory, blurred as if remembered from a long time ago, made its way through the clogged recesses of his mind. "Seventh month. It was the seventh." Another thought came to him. "July, I think. And who are you?"

"All in good time, boy, all in good time."

_Boy_. Phantom images coalesced behind the cobwebs, seeking to break through at the casual use of _that_ word. A man with a long red beard flashed through his mind. An elderly woman waving a metal soup scoop in his face, scowling at him with a look that filled him with dread. Hmm, Boy. Yes, he hated that word. Other thoughts filled his mind, a hazy collection of events that threatened to overwhelm him with the intensity of the emotions associated with them.

"No, wait. The prophecy... I lost. I... _died_." And why was that such a surprise to him? Oh. "The horcruxes. They were supposed to protect... they didn't work. _He_ found them all?" Even more surprise. "_How_? And come to think of it, where am I?"

"In order, the prophecy I'm talking about is different to the one you're referring to." The voice said in a lecturing tone. "You did, indeed, die. He did indeed find all your soul jars – nice idea, by the way, shame about the insanity – before proceeding to kill you. As to where you are, well, may I bid you welcome to my humble abode."

A gust of wind chilled his back. He turned around and looked into a female face done entirely in black and white. "Greetings, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am death." She bowed. "Welcome to the afterlife. We have much to discuss."

Voldemort couldn't find it in himself to disagree.

* * *

"You have placed me in quite the predicament, Riddle." The entity wearing a female body said. Riddle shifted on the bench uncomfortably. "By rights, you _should_ have won hands down. The boy wasn't exactly hard to handle, after all. The Dark Lord you were meant to destroy was meant to be vanquished by you in open combat. The Death Eaters you'd marked would have fallen in behind you and your plans for a world where magic broke through the boundaries imposed by a fearful few and swept humanity along into the golden age you'd envisioned had you lived. So why, exactly, did you die before your time, Riddle?" It asked him.

_Foolish little boy...- What are you doing, Tom?- Kill the spare.- Take me instead!- There are worse things than death..._ Images unreeled in front of his mind's eye, blurred and unsteady. There were so many, none of them exactly pleasant to cope with. Through it all, a single realisation came to him. "I lost my mind." He stated. "Part of it was the horcruxes, the other part was that I obsessed on one target and let my subordinates do as they pleased behind my back." Another pause as he contemplated earlier memories. "I condoned them, on occasion. Never disciplined them when I found out-"

"-And created a lot of work for me." Death interjected. " Do you have any idea how many people died because you didn't keep a tighter leash on your minions?"

Tom shook his head. "No."

Death stared at him. "Alright." It unfurled a scroll. "Twenty years' tally – four hundred normal, non-magical humans. Two and a half thousand sapient entities. Seven and a half _thousand_ magicals. In other words, four hundred normal people and close to half the magical population of England. This figure does not include losses sustained by your forces-around 620 wizards & witches, all from traditional magical backgrounds, over that same period. Nor does it include peripheral victims either-all the dead listed here were victims directly targeted whilst under your command."

"Impressive." Voldemort whispered.

"Indeed." Death stated sourly. "Thing is, most of these deaths weren't meant to happen, not at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Okay, pay attention now." Death leaned closer. "Who defeated Gellert Grindelwald?"

"Dumbledore." Riddle grunted.

"Who became headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry upon Dippet's retirement?"

"Dumbledore."

"Who wielded the Elder Wand before you obtained it? Who became a mentor figure to a group colloquially known as the marauders? Who led the Order of the Phoenix? Who granted Snape amnesty? Who arranged the path for Harry James Potter to fulfil the conditions of _his_ prophecy?"

He scowled. "Albus. Bloody. Dumbledore. Is there a point to this?"

"In a moment. Who killed Gellert Grindelwald?"

"I did."

"Who killed Gregorovitch?"

"I did."

"Who undertook a pilgrimage across the world, vanquishing Dark Wizards in order to glean their darkest secrets from them and thereby wiping out the last remnants of Gellert's inner circle?"

"I did."

"Who united the Blacks, Lestranges and Malfoys under a single banner for the first time in over four hundred years?"

"I. Did."

"Who was the greatest prodigy in the research and creation of magics since the Flamels?"

"I-don't know, actually." He said, puzzled.

"You. You pioneered multiple horcruxes. You found a method to cast the Unforgiveables that didn't require emotional input on behalf of the caster. You built wards and enchantments that literally spanned a nation, a feat unequalled since the Victorian Era. You brought the strongest bastion of magic in the British Isles to its knees just because it got in your way. And you did all this _after_ losing your blood mind."

Silence. Yes, he'd done all that. It hadn't been hard, to be honest. He'd wanted a challenge and all those feats Death had listed off may sound impressive to anyone else, but he had been Lord Voldemort. Compared to his other achievements, those Death'd listed off were beneath him. "... And? Again, what is the point to this exposition of yours?"

Death chuckled. "You, Tom Riddle, were the subject of a prophecy on the night of your birth. It was the last prophecy issued by a male Trelawney. Bluntly put, it stated that the Dark Lord would be destroyed by a boy whose parents had thrice defied him and who was born in december. Since Gellert didn't go for horcruxes, there was no need to mark you as his equal and no need to die in order for you to kill him. However, there _was_ a time limit imposed upon the date by which the Dark Lord had to die in order for the one destined to kill him to avoid a similar fate. But there was one problem."

"Let me guess." He said venomously. "Albus Dumbledore."

"Cor-rect. You're good at this." Riddle waved off the compliment. He had experience in the matter. When appropriate, Blame Dumbledore-which means blame him all the time for everything. You rarely went wrong.

Death breathed. "Albus was visiting Trelawney that night. They'd been dorm-mates long ago and had gotten into the habit of visiting each other after world war one started and Grindelwald went AWOL. Then Trelawney spewed out the prophecy to a horrified Albus realised who the Dark Lord the prophecy referred to was and who was destined to find the champion, since prophecies tend to be kind of worthless when blurted out to otherwise empty rooms."

Riddle remembered that tid-bit from his own studies. Generally, those who hear a prophecy tend to play a central role in its unfolding. One way or the other.

Death continued. "Dumbledore... didn't take it well. He joined Hogwarts soon after, intent on rooting out the boy destined to kill the love of his life and push him down a different path. He finds you, intimidates you, manipulates those around you and downright lies to you in order to stop you from gaining the power you'd need to unwittingly kill dear old Gellert. All for nothing, of course. He can see you getting more powerful, more influential and more effective with magic by the day and there's not a damn thing he can find to pin on your paranoid ass."

Riddle smiled. Now _those_ days he remembered with a sharp and awful clarity. Victories, big and small, had been sweeter than any that'd come since. Matching wits with one of the most powerful wizards of the century and winning more often than not was a rush he'd never forgotten.

"So he sees that he's running out of time. Gellert'd started moving. You were starting to show the signs those in the know look for when searching for a hero. Amando Dippet was getting very curious about why his transfiguration professor was so obsessed with a half-blood orphan. And things were generally not working out for poor old Albus. So he comes up with a very Gryffindor plan – if he can defeat Gellert first, _defeat_ mind, not kill, then you wouldn't be necessary and the prophecy would be rendered null & void. In the summer of 1944, he manages to do exactly that-vanquish Gellert, imprison him in Nurmengard which Albus believed would keep Gellert safe from you and go home as the conquering hero."

Riddle nodded. "So Dumbledore knew that I was destined to defeat Grindelwald and took matters into his own hands." He smiled. "I always knew he was a fool, but I had no idea..." He was the more intelligent wizard in the end. Vindication was his at last.

"Oh, it gets better. You see, _you_ were meant to be the rightful owner of the Elder Wand. You were meant to assume the headmaster's position at Hogwarts thanks to your actions. You were meant to instruct and direct the generation you ended up killing off. And, eventually, one of your descendants was meant to assume the title of Master or Mistress of Death and assume some of my responsibilities."

"What?"

"Hey, this is hard work!" Death huffed. "Even anthropomorphic representations need a break now & then, you know."

"No, I was referring to descendants. What descendants?" He asked.

"Well, if things had gone according to plan, you would have found your soulmate and had a bunch of kids to boot."

"_What_?" Voldemort asked in an icy tone. "Soulmate? Children? Who?"

"Antoinette Lagrange."

Riddle choked. "The daughter of Grindelwald's chief enforcer? Are you mad?"

"Yes, and almost certainly. Remember that she was in your year."

"Yes, I remember her extremely well-" black hair, brown eyes. A fine body to dote upon during a warm night in post-war Paris- Wait. He remembered seeing that face not long ago- Riddle groaned. "Granger."

Death smiled. "Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Grand-daughter?"

"Great-grand-daughter. Your daughter was a tad promiscuous, if you catch my drift. Also a bit sloppy with prophylactic charms." She grinned. "Not my fault, I swear."

"Bugger. Does Potter know?"

"No." Death beamed happily. "Because Granger doesn't. Their daughter will, though."

"And why is that?"

"She's the next heiress of Slytherin. You and Harry killed off the others. He killed you. You killed everyone else bar your grand-daughter and great-grand-daughter." Death grinned. "Those two are in for one hell of a surprise. Their spouses, I'm afraid, don't live for very long afterwards, but them's the breaks of messing with soulmates."

"Shit." Riddle said, putting more feelings into that one word then he did when using the _crucio_ as Voldemort.

"And she just happens to also be my choice for Mistress of Death. Hah!"

"_Shit_!" And it was all _that brat's_ fault. "Potter will pay." He grumbled.

"Oh, get over yourself mister grumpy-pants. Or do you prefer mouldy-shorts?" She grinned at his vicious scowl. "You were trying to kill her not that long ago. Tried very, very hard-and failed. She has your mind, so you know that she knows what she's doing. She loves the boy. You are not to interfere-not that you could, but hey." She shrugged. "Anyway, yes, Lagrange is your soulmate, the poor girl. Or was, at any rate. You would have liked it."

"Yes." Riddle sighed at the missed opportunities. "Maybe."

"Which brings us to my question. How would you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, like to escape death one last time?"

Riddle looked at Death with the same expression he wore whenever Wormtail was in the room. "At what price?"

"Clever boy." She said. "You have no idea how many people just say 'Yes!' to that. First, you go back and fulfill your prophecy again, but as it was meant to be fulfilled. No dilly-dallying, foot-dragging."

"Right." Riddle nodded. That sounded fair.

"No plotting the take-over of the wizarding world until after you've fulfilled your destiny." Riddle started and stared at her. "Come on, Tommy. Once the big bad Dark Lord is six feet under, you won't need to plot a takeover. They'll hand you the bloody keys."

"... Alright."

"No enticing followers using that purity of blood schtick. Look where it got you last time. Dark or Light doesn't matter, just don't use rhetoric likely to attract people that think you're alright with the idea of turning Azkaban into a magical version of Auschwitz which, by the way, made for a lot of unnecessary work on my part."

Riddle just nodded.

"And, last but not least, no horcruxes. The prophecy affords you a degree of protection as it is, so as long as you avoid Gellert until you're ready, you'll be fine. Second, I'd dearly like to see what you can do with that brain of yours this time around. And third, you looked really hideous as a snake. Do we understand each other?"

Riddle hesitated, then nodded resolutely. "No horcruxes. Got it."

Death nodded in turn. "In that case, good luck Mister Riddle." He looked up and saw the white ceiling dissolve and scatter into a howling dark void. His body started to tingle as strands of matter unravelled in front of this very eyes. A distant roaring sound reached his ears and increased in volume, sounding like it was getting closer and closer. He looked up at Death. She smiled at him.

"And remember, try not to take too long this time." Was the last thing he heard before something engulfed him.

Tom Riddle woke up in his bed in Wool's Orphanage. The calendar indicated that it was december 29th, 1937. Joy.


	23. Happiness

Okay, so I decided to do an epilogue-compliant fic here-shit, throw those tomatoes elsewhere! See, this has been bugging me for weeks, ever since I wrote that H/Hr trope monstrosity before-how does such a dysfunctional family work for close to twenty years, knowing what we know about their relationships with each other? Simple, I though, if they're all bat-shit crazy and singularly obsessed with making their dreams come true. Now, while this is not a bash-fic, it's because they're all horrible people who hurt each other for selfish reasons in equal measure and have no idea how to rectify the situation without making it worse. It's intended as a humorous fic, but it does get kind of horrifying... Eh, I think it's funny. Bwahahaha! There, see? Anyway, enjoy this, well, I don't rightly know _what _it is.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you **Happiness** in all its slightly crazy glory.

Ronald Bilius Weasley was a good man. True, he hadn't always been a good man, but things had changed since his childhood. A great many things. For one, he got married to his childhood friend, had two beautiful children he doted upon and his large family had gotten larger with the addition of his other childhood friend, his sprogs and his brother's own brood of kids joining the Weasley family. He was fairly successful in his career, was a respected member of the community and had come into his own under the tutelage of some of the greatest wizards & witches to ever grace the shores of Britain with their presence.

He'd grown into a forgiving, patient and wonderful man. It'd taken him a long time, but he wasn't the same boy who'd invaded the compartment of a hero only to find a boy that looked more at home on a street corner than in the annals of legend. Indeed, he was a legend in his own right now!

On paper, his life was a wonderful fairy tale of the under-appreciated side-kick growing and coming into his own. To be fair, most of his life was like that-or so he'd thought until about a minute ago.

Which is when he'd caught his two best friends, one of whom was his wife while the other was both godfather to his children as well as his nominal boss, going at it like there was no tomorrow.

"What the hell?" He shouted out loudly. "What-what is this?"

"What does it look like?" Hermione asked as she hurriedly tried to readjust her bra. "Honestly Ron."

"Well-" He sputtered before sighing. "You... and Harry... well..."

Harry (that fucking _bastard_) had the gall to snigger. "Heh."

"Don't _you_ start Potter." Ron spat. "When Ginny hears about this, she'll-"

"Cry on her boyfriend's shoulder, like she always does." Harry interrupted. "Or her girlfriends' if she's on another of her endless world tours."

"What?"

"Honestly Ron." Hermione said. "Didn't you ever wonder _why_ Ginny spent more time on Quidditch and looking after the kids than any of us?"

"Uh, no." Ron said, too confused to be anything but honest. "No, I didn't."

"It's because she really doesn't like to spend time with either of us three." Harry said. "She feels 'ashamed'" He said, adding air quotes to the conversation "about her 'deviant tendencies' and can't stand to look me in the eye. I tried to talk her down from her high horse, but hey, I'm glad she's found happiness."

"Wait." Ron said, calming himself down. _Focus old boy, these are your two best friends since _forever_. Don't freak out and kill them yet._ "Okay, back on topic here. _You_," he said, pointing at Harry "were fucking _her_ which, friendship aside, happens to be my fucking _wife_." He shouted pointing at Hermione. "Explain."

"Oh, come on!" Hermione exclaimed. "This coming from 'he-who-shagged-Pansy-sodding-Creevey on her wedding day?"

Ron blanched. _How did she_-

"Rosie wrote to me about a pug-nosed red-head that was constantly harassing her about 'Daddy' last year." Hermione said, interpreting the look on his face correctly. "Harry was more than happy to spring details about it. Turns out, _hubbie_, that the only reason I didn't find out sooner was because Harry had a long talk with Pansy and Dennis about the whole thing. A talk, I might add, I would have liked to have known about _earlier_."

"Oh please." Potter said. "She's my best mate's daughter."

"Is that why you offered to pay for her tuition through Hogwarts as long as Pansy and Dennis treated her well?" Hermione asked shrewdly.

"It was either that or having Ron destroy your marriage by trying to either play 'hide-the-bastard' or engage in one of his legendary explanations." He shrugged as Hermione huffed. "Admit it, he's always kind of pants at those around you."

"Wait, I have another _daughter_?"

Harry startled in surprise. "You mean you didn't _know_? Wow Ron, way to keep tabs on your paramours mate."

"_You. Shut. Up. Harry._" He snarled. "How could you keep my own daughter's existence from me? Or fuck my wife, for that matter?"

Hermione just stared at him. "Ron, when was the last time we actually made love to one another?"

"Last Saturday. Why?"

"No, Ron, not sex, _making love_." She stated as she went into lecture mode. "There's a difference."

"There is?" He asked, non-plussed. The faint _slap _of Harry's palm hitting his face whilst muttering 'stupid' echoed into the ensuing silence.

"Listen mate." Harry said very carefully. "We're sorry you had to find out like this-well not really, but at least _I_ feel bad about it" He amended as he caught Hermione's glare directed at him "but, well..."

"He wasn't being entirely honest about the whole 'brother and sister' thing." Hermione finished.

"I gathered." Ron said in deadpan. "I think the kitchen table got clued in too." Harry smirked at that with his 'I've got a _secret_' expression at that. "And no, I _don't_ want to know the details, you bloody bastard!" The smirk got wider. Ron huffed. "I am _this close_ to hexing you Harry, so help me- wait." Brother and Sister. When had Harry- "The locket was _right_?"

The smirk disappeared. "Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that..." Hermione slapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry."

"Are you trying to tell me that you've been sleeping with my wife for _twenty years_?"

"Well, no." Harry said carefully. "Not much in the way of sleeping involved."

"How-why-" Ron spluttered again.

"Well, we had to be careful not to fall asleep afterwards, otherwise three drops of _veritaserum_ at the wrong time and boom." Harry said, bringing his hands apart. Hermione slapped him on the back of the head. "Ouch woman-okay, sorry. No, well, yeah, well, on and off..." He stated, fumbling. "Pretty much whenever you, ah, didn't sate her needs, I helped out."

"But, but Ginny-"

"-Knows." Hermione interjected. "I told her after Harry caught her with Gabrielle before James came along."

"Yeah, that was a fun conversation. Especially the way both of them kept hitting on you afterwards." Hermione started blushing. Harry grinned.

"Mate, I love Ginny, but I have to say she makes a better wingman than she ever was a housewife." Harry stated. "Kinky too. Why that one time with me and-"

"HARRY!" Hermione shouted. "Ixnay on the-day-that-must-not-be-named-say."

"Also known as my 25th birthday-Ow!" He shouted as Hermione once again nailed him the back of the head.

"And me?" Ron asked in a pained voice. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Half the Hollyhead Harpies's starting line-up, for one." Harry said sadly. "I told you to lay off the booze mate, but did you listen? You have _no idea_ how many times I had to portkey your sorry ass back to my place to keep anyone from noticing. I mean, I didn't even have to _obliviate_ you half the time-you just plain didn't remember."

"What?" Ron asked, bewildered. "You mean they _weren't_ dreams?"

"Nope." Harry said quite happily. "Not even close."

"So, that thing I did... with Lavender..."

"Yep!" He stated happily. "Who knew werewolves were that flex-Ow! Hermione!" Harry whined.

"No. Stop." The irate witch said. "That's _quite _enough out of you Potter." Harry winced.

"B-but why did you obliviate me?" Ron asked in a pained voice.

"Because you can't lie worth a tinker's damn Ron." Hermione said. "Honestly, you'd have done something really stupid and pulled a Ginny on me. You are my husband and I love you. Watching you constantly wallow around in self-induced guilt, like you did for weeks after shagging Pansy, would have destroyed our marriage. So I asked Harry to keep an eye on you and make sure you didn't have to lie."

"Yeah." Harry said. "No offence mate, but I've had enough watching my best mates duking it out while we were still in Hogwarts. If I could do anything to spare us all the drama and keep everyone happy, I did it with a smile on my face. By the way, don't be surprised at the number of redheads attending Beauxbatons if you ever go there, just a small warning."

"Y-you mean-you can't mean?" He whispered in horror. Mom was going to have his balls for Christmas lights.

"Yes. Two classes' worth of graduates from Beauxbatons and at least three members of the Durmstrang Quidditch team." Hermione said happily. "They send me postcards every now & then."

"Can't fault your taste in women mate." Harry said. "You did marry this beautiful creature after all." He smiled at Hermione, who cocked an eyebrow back. "What?"

"_12 failsafe ways to charm a witch?_ Really Harry?" She asked, smiling.

"Meh, go with the classics I say."

"That's _not_ a classic." Hermione huffed before looking at her dumbstruck husband. "Ronnie?" She asked as she stared at her catatonic husband. "What's wrong?"

Ronald Bilius Weasley just stared at his loveable, adoring wife of twenty years in dumbstruck horror. Dear Merlin, he'd married a crazy person. "Uh..."

"Oh yeah." Harry snapped his fingers. "Sorry, lost track of the conversation there. Anyway, Hermione means more to me than anyone else in the world-my kids excepted, of course-and we've been through a lot together, so whenever she needs someone she loves & trusts enough to keep herself or you on the right track, she calls me up."

Scratch that, he was _surrounded_ by crazy people. "And just how does that translate into you fucking my wife, concealing the existence of my own children from me and generally interfering with my life?" He asked angrily. "This is insane! How could you? Both of you? Do you know what this makes me look like?"

"Well yes." Hermione deadpanned. "But it was either that or our marriage failing. I chose not to allow our mistakes to get in the way of our happiness, is all."

"You call this happiness?" Ron asked.

"Yes, I do. You have a happy life, Harry has a happy life, I have a happy life and all the other people involved have more-or-less comfortable & happy lives too." She pointed out logically. "A bit of damage control here, a few more kids there, it's not exactly turned out extremely well, but we're all happy Ron."

"Yep!" Harry said. "We're all happy and well off. Hermione doesn't have to choose because both you and I are always there for her, you're not fucking up your life by remembering the number of times you've cheated on her and feeling guilty for it, which'd make _her_ feel guilty about it and me angry at you and I get the family & friends I always wanted."

"And my kids?" He growled dangerously. "What about them?"

"Ron, why do you think I still work despite inheriting the Potter family fortune?" Harry asked. "It's because the portion of that fortune that would normally go to me is being put to good use. Your kids and their mothers are well taken care, I can assure you. Honestly, it barely impacts my inheritance either. Besides," he smiled "You send them letters every week telling them about their half-siblings, how you're doing etcetera."

Bloody fucking crazy, both of them.

"Oh, stop looking at us like that." Hermione interjected. "What were you going to do, divorce me and leave Rosie & Hugo in the lurch?"

That... was a good point. But that did bring up the question that mattered now. "Are they mine?"

"Yes." Harry stated unequivocally. "You _raised_ them Ron."

Ron very carefully chose to not remark on how much of a dodge that statement was. He chose to pretend Harry wasn't sure and leave it at that. Besides, it'd be a bit hypocritical-no this was _their_ fault, more so than his at this stage. But he didn't want to do _that_ to his kids (and suddenly, in the back of his mind, Ron noticed how much sense Harry's behaviour made and quailed). "Alright, point taken. But still, Harry?"

"Ron! Harry's been there for me and I've been there for him ever since we were eleven, a state of affairs which even you cannot aspire to. I don't love him as much as I love you, but I trust him with my life. A little thing such as asking for comfort and affection when I need some is not that much to ask." She stated. "He's helped a lot Ronald. More than you can imagine."

Ron sighed. "Okay, so my life has been a complete and utter lie-"

"No it hasn't." Harry said. "You love Hermione, that hasn't changed. You're my friend and confidante when it comes to professional matters, which hasn't changed either. You are the proud father to many, many more kids than you thought you were, which is a clear win for you. You have a good career, a caring family and friends, which hasn't changed. It's just that now you know of a few more, ah, details about what's going on behind the scenes, is all."

"Right. So my life hasn't been exactly what I thought it was, happy?" Ron asked, glaring. Harry just shrugged. "And you both pretty much orchestrated the whole thing to the point where I thought I was a great husband whereas the reality is that, no, I am in fact a cheating bastard married to a cheating wife who's shagging my boss stupid in the kitchen when I'm not looking." He sighed. "This... is a lot to take in."

"Look mate, I know this is a difficult thing to take in, but you have to accept it." Harry said. "You weren't as nice a man as you thought you were, we're not nice people, but we've got what we fought for-a happy life, loving families, good jobs and a better world. This is exactly what we wanted."

"No, I don't _have _to accept it Harry. And I certainly didn't want to live a fucking _lie_."

"Well, okay then." Hermione stated. "So dear Ronald, care to explain exactly why you decided to knock up every two-bit whore between here and the Oural mountains then?" She exclaimed sweetly. "Think, Ronald. For once in your Merlin- bedamned life. You wanted a perfect marriage despite all our problems? Well, you got it. Everything you said you wanted, you got it. What more do you want?"

"To know that... that it's real." Ron whimpered.

"Well, mate, it is. It may not be what you thought it was, but it is." Harry said, motioning Hermione to sidle over to her husband on one side while he took the other. "We've been here for each other for ages. That's not going to change, alright? She really, really loves you and I, well, I love you, Ginny, Hermione and the kids with all my heart. You were, and still are my best mate."

Ron just nodded.

"Oh Ronnie..." Hermione sighed. "I just want to have a good life with you. Can you forgive me?" Ron nodded and she hugged him. "Thank you."

The three of them sat there in silence, waiting for Ron to calm down. Finally, the ginger-haired wizard came out of it. "Guys, I-I need time to think, you know? Maybe talk to some people-"

"Go see Ginny." Harry stated. "She'll fill you in a bit more on the details." Ron nodded. "Also, Luna Scamander should be back at the Rookery, she knows some of it."

"Okay. I don't know exactly when I'll be back, but I will be. Take care, guys." He stated as he apparated.

"You know, I think that went rather well." Harry mused. "Better than expected, at least."

"I _still_ say we should have obliviated him Harry. Who knows what strange ideas he'll come up with now?" She said as she grabbed hold of Harry's hand and started to drag him into her embrace.

"I couldn't. Not anymore. Bloke needs to figure things out. Coddling him was making it worse." Harry said.

"I know Harry. But I just don't want to lose him." She said as she started to dig under his shirt. "Do you think it was a good idea not to come clean about Rosie?"

"No. I may be her father, but Ron's her Dad. I won't do that to her." Harry was momentarily silent as he started petting his best friend's wife. "Say, Hermione. Knowing what you know now, would have changed anything?" He asked as he kissed her collarbone.

"Not a thing Harry." She stated with conviction. "Not a thing."


	24. Frienemies: re-starting it all

Frienemies

So here's a trope for you: Severus Snape dies and goes back in time. Lily dies and goes back in time. The two meet. There are some great stories about just such an occurrence, so my brain decided to check it out. Needless to say, it didn't come out the way I imagined it-or did it? You don't know me, bwahahahaha!

Warning: ANGST! This _is_ a Snape & Lily meet up after dying fic, after all.

* * *

Going back in time and reliving your life. Righting wrongs. Mending broken relationships. Doing good. Correcting mistakes. All lovely notions. Something to dream about on wet weekend nights after the sun has set and you are left with naught but your work and the ghosts of the pasts, the should-have-beens, the could-have-beens and the never weres.

But what if it happened to you? Would you _really_ fix all your mistakes-or make newer ones instead? It is one of the lesser known blessings of the human condition that mistakes are your own and, unless death is involved, easily corrected through either penitence or ignorance. They hurt, they can never be completely absolved, but, in the end, the finality behind them is a blessing in disguise.

Some live with their mistakes better than most. Regardless of how severe the mistake is, your reactions to them define you. Stealing candy is, to some, more guilt-inducing than killing someone in cold blood. On the other side of things, regretting mistakes made by others and their effect on you is often more crippling than the mistakes you made-be it because of their outcomes or the feeling of helplessness you experienced as the consequences became clear , being the subject of a mistake is just as crippling as being its initiator.

To say nothing of things that weren't mistakes to begin with. Truly, the choices we make are what define us. The inability to take them back is what defines the nature of said choices and, by extension, our nature. We can regret them all we want, we made them and they eventually make us.

Now, do you _still_ want to go back in time, knowing what you do? Knowing that you could make a different choice, be a different person and go down the road not taken?

Because if your answer is yes, then you are a fool. Never regret your choices. They make you _you_. Regret the outcomes, sure. But you made the choices you did _for a reason_. Would you voluntarily deny those choices knowing what you do now when the reasons behind them are warped through time and biased introspection? Far better to correct them now than to make them never be. For as long as you are alive, there is still time to do so.

If you are ever faced with the choice to go back in time and make amends while the option of correcting them _now_ still exists, say no. Stay, and correct the mistakes you made. To do otherwise is the heart of foolishness.

If, on the other hand, you cannot correct them, say yes. And on your head be it.

_-Anon._

* * *

Green is the colour of nature. Green is the colour of life. Trust magic to twist that.

The last thing Severus Snape saw as life left him on that cold spring morning was a pair of green eyes staring at him. It was done. He'd fulfilled his obligations as best he could. His penitence, for all the things he'd said and done, was finally over.

Death claimed him. _Except-_

He came to with a hiss of startled breath, disoriented by the feeling of nausea crawling through him. He looked around in startled bewilderment, feeling himself up & down, looking for the tell-tale signs of ghosthood and finding none. The room he was in finally registered.

His old room back on Spinner's End. Hell it was, then.

He sighed (_drawing breath in, slowly releasing it. Strange, to have a body in Hell. Oh well, it made sense from a torture standpoint_) and braced himself. If this was his fate, he'd gladly meet it. He deserved it, in the end. Seven years of supervising the brat did not excuse the multitude of corpses he'd left in his wake. One did not kill a wizard such as Dumbledore and expect a _happy_ afterlife. Now, if this was an accurate rendering of his room, then he would be able to find his Hogwarts goods in the closet. He checked himself in the mirror on the door (_dear Lord, he'd forgotten how scrawny he'd been as a teen_)- around sixteen, wearing filthy robes as makeshift pyjamas, lacking the sallow skin-tone common to potions masters, right hand bearing the signs of bruising... Hmm, late august at the very least, if his memories of the yellow-purple rash were accurate.

The timing, as it stood, could have been worse. He was as yet unmarked (_was undergoing _that_ again going to be part of his punishment?_), he was relatively healthy still and his mother's recent death would provide a suitable excuse for any odd behaviour he exhibited on the incredibly slim off-chance that this _wasn't_ Hell. His father, if he remembered correctly (which he did, thanks to Occlumency), was busy drinking himself into an early grave as a result of Eileen's passing. It had been odd, to a twenty-year-old Snape, to realise that his father had loved his mother. Not that he particularly _cared_. His father was a big fan of body language. He liked to shout in it, much to his and his mother's detriment. Old Tobias could love his family as much as he wanted, he was still a worm in Snape's eyes. Hurting strangers was one thing. Hurting your family was a line you should _never _cross.

Hurting strangers, on the other hand, was fine and dandy in his book. Well, them and _Potters_. No matter how much the last Potter (truly the last, if what Dumbledore had told him that night was right) had turned out to be every inch his mother's son, he was still a _Potter_. Severus did what he could, but his grudges tended to be of the eternal variety. He knew it was petty. He didn't care. Probably a sign that he was very much his father's son after all.

Which had probably gone a long way towards landing him back here. Hell or the past. To Severus, they were one and the same.

He fumbled through his cupboard. As long as he left before last call at the pub down the road, he doubted his father would be in any state to notice his departure. Or anything else, for that matter.

* * *

Lily Marie Evans (only recently addressed as Potter) came to with a startled scream. Which was impossible, for she was dead. Wasn't she?

* * *

Fun fact: Spinner's End bordered what was once a fairly popular resort for middle class wizarding families on break. For some unnameable reason (literally so, thanks to the taboo), business had dried up recently. Bad news for the resort managers. Great news for the young wizard bereft of pounds but with galleons aplenty.

Severus had actually stumbled upon the place in the summer of '91. He knew, back then, that it was likely to be his last chance at any sort of peace before the big hoo-ha that marked the re-entrance of the boy-who-lived into the magical world, so he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that he could both clean up his old house without having to sully himself with then-dead memories for longer than necessary and still enjoy the luxury of having a potions lab, no matter how run-down, on hand.

Just like in his memories, an elderly (or not-so-elderly, now) lady sat behind the desk, shooting hexes at buzzing flies and reading a cheap paper-back novel sold for a penny or five in the muggle world. The resort didn't look nearly as run-down as it would in the future, which was both a good and bad thing. Good side, the lab would probably be up to his exacting standards this time around. Bad, the rooms may be pricier than they would be in the future-past.

He dragged his trunk up to the counter and looked at the witch. "How much?" he asked in that annoyingly piping voice he'd had last time around.

The witch looked at him. "Single or double?"

"Single." He said, doing his best to repress the sneer he could feel building behind his shields.

"Galleon a night." The witch said. "Two if you have guests."

Severus nodded. Galleon a night. Prices hadn't changed since the last time then. Still, he had the money Mother had left him, so it wasn't like he couldn't afford it. "And the potions laboratory?"

The witch finally deigned to look at him. "Free if you clean it after you're done. A galleon a week if you want to rent some equipment-or aren't particularly interested in cleaning up your mess."

Severus smiled a toothy smile. "I have my own, thanks. And I'll clean after myself." Wouldn't do to leave any evidence of his brewing abilities out in the open, after all. He was not supposed to have them yet.

"Then it's free. How long?"

Seven gold coins spilled onto the counter. "A week, maybe more."

"Hogwarts, then." The witch smiled. "Miss that place."

"I don't. " Snape muttered to himself.

"Trust me, one day you will." The witch countered, smirking at the young man. Snape privately doubted that. "Anyway, a week it is. Not like there's anyone else here anyway. Brillig!"

_Pop_. "Mistress called Brillig?" A tiny house elf said from behind the counter.

"Ack! Will you stop doing that, you wretched thing?" The witch shrieked.

"Doing what, Mistress?" The elf said in confusion.

"Never mind." The witch sighed. "Show this young man here to his room please. Single, by the way."

"Yes mistress. If Sir would please follow Brillig..." And the elf snapped its fingers, levitating the trunk behind it as it left Severus to follow.

* * *

Everything was exactly as she remembered it. The rows of houses, the old-timey cars, the newspaper articles about muggle things such as strikes and far-away wars, the antiquated television sets, the well-tended lawns, her family... all exactly the same as before.

Except for her.

She couldn't, for the life of her, figure out how old she was exactly. It was all a blur. She knew it was some time after she turned fourteen, having shot up in height before her growth ground to a screeching halt until she was seventeen, but she didn't know _exactly_. But it was all there, just like she remembered it-her room full of paraphernalia that was, technically, illegal to own in a muggle household, her clothes, her school clothes, her summer muggle study material (she'd wanted to go to university after graduating Hogwarts, but that all got shot to hell by Voldemort), her Hogwarts stuff, her toys, her stationery-all of it.

And it was wrong. All wrong. She'd lived through this already. She should be _dead_. The curse had _connected_ and _ripped her soul out of her body_. It'd been a fraction of a second, a lifetime, a never-ending eternal agony before she'd woken up in the past. She could still feel the phantom pain of her brain being fried inside her skull as the Killing Curse forcibly shutdown her nervous system.

And now this. It was all too much.

She'd been in a daze all morning. Should she cry? Over what? Her husband was dead, but James was alive in the here and now. She knew Harry was protected thanks to that nifty bit of spell-work she'd done (_note to self: next time, sacrifice someone other than _yourself) and that Voldemort would try-and fail-to kill him. Sirius would look after him. Remus would make sure he grew up to be a responsible kid. And Alice would make a _great_ god-mother to her son as promised.

Everything was going to end well for her baby. She couldn't cry over not being there for him since A-he was going to be fine and B-Harry technically _didn't exist here yet_.

And she wasn't dead. None of her friends were dead yet . The Order of the Phoenix wasn't yet engaged in battle, meaning that they weren't dead either. Everyone she knew was alive, gloriously _alive_! She was back in time and had the chance to make things better!

So why did she feel the way she did? Was it normal to feel this empty after being blasted through time?

She let her feet guide her in a daze. It was the end of summer, after all. Nobody'd look twice at a spaced-out teenager shuffling down the street.

She needed a drink, she decided. But where to go? All she had on her was galleons, having left her muggle wallet back at the house.

Wait. There _was_ a place nearby. She'd stayed there once over the winter with James before they tied the knot.

It was exactly what she needed.

* * *

The room was your standard, well-appointed magical hotel room. Nothing to write home about (and where _was_ home now, anyway?). The grounds were reasonably pleasing to the eye. His corner of the lab was up & running. He had officially toured the entire compound.

Except for the bar. The temptation to drink himself stupid was strong indeed. He resisted until he had the appropriate hang-over cures on the boil so that they were ready for Brillig to bring to him in the morning, then set off to get rip-roaring drunk.

The barman understood. Or not. Severus wasn't really paying attention beyond the fact that the man was willing to serve Snape un-spiked firewhiskey, which was what mattered the most right then. Well, that, the galleons he had in his pocket and the ability to smoke cigarettes at the countertop without attracting attention.

Severus revelled in the silence. After spending fifteen years surrounded by teenagers, one learned to appreciate the quiet moments in life. Most of the Hogwarts staff would've traded in their masteries for a quiet corner in the castle and a ready pint of their poison on tap by the end of the first week. The heads of house, by virtue of being almost completely unable to leave all year round, would have traded in body parts in exchange for such a luxury before the students even arrived. But they coped somehow when it was necessary, which was all the bloody time.

The whiskey went down a treat. Whenever he drank, his second shot was always muggle whiskey. Firewhiskey set the tone, actual whiskey followed the beat afterwards. His fellow Death Eaters had been quite puzzled by Snape's little drinking quirk. Then again, it wasn't the most eccentric one and Voldemort let it slide, so they merely presumed that it was okay.

Severus shuddered as he remembered those days. Not because of the blood & horror they contained, but the sense of _excitement_, of _anticipation_ for a better world that infected the group. Most of his colleagues had been half-blood misfits much like him. They knew Voldemort's stance on muggleborn, but also knew that the Dark Lord would herald in a magical golden age where all would benefit from the wonder of magic. No more barriers between worlds. No more scurrying like rats in the shadows of a purely muggle universe. Eventually, all of mankind would be _magical_. So what if some mudbloods had to die if it meant that all would be able to bask in the majestic glow of it all?

Ah, the stupidity of youth. None of them even _bothered_ to entertain the notion that the Dark Lord actually _believed_ his own rhetoric, thought that he just spoke the words to draw in pureblood support. Finding out that, no, the Dark Lord _did_ indeed believe what he preached had come as a rude shock, especially when you knew where he came from.

That, almost as much as the Prophecy, was what had motivated him to seek out Dumbledore so long ago. He'd wanted magic to be _free_, open for all to see. Magic could never _rule_, especially not through the guise of a single person. His younger self had honestly believed Voldemort to _know better_.

Again, the stupidity of youth perhaps. Either that, or delusion, that greatest of all self-inflicted Dark Magics.

He signalled for a refill and for a coffee on the side. No sense in getting blotto _too_ quickly.

So what now? There was no way that he could go back to being a Death Eater. It wasn't even a matter of quitting. His Slytherin friends didn't honestly care whether he joined or not by this stage. There were plenty others who wanted to join the cause. What was one more body to throw into the meat grinder? One less? It didn't matter to the recruiters. Nor did it matter to him.

Maybe he could just pack it all in. He had his OWLs. He was sure that Beauxbatons would take him. Either them or those crazy yank bastards in Salem. Either was better than Hogwarts at the moment. He really didn't want to walk amongst his peers. He honestly doubted any of them had actually survived.

The shot of whiskey tasted nice when mixed with the thaumically activated coffee. He ordered more of the same, appreciating the irony of being just like his father. Potter would laugh, doubtlessly. Hmm. Did he survive? Sev didn't care anymore. He was dead over there. He still wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't hell. Potter would live or die and nothing would change the outcome for _him_. That world had ended for him. His own personal apocalypse.

Dear Lord, he was sobering up. The coffee was too strong. Did he mention anything or just let it go? Eh, screw it. If needs be, he could always just retire to his room and go to sleep. He poured the shot of whiskey into the coffee and drank half of it, not noticing the soft footfalls coming from behind him.

* * *

The resort was better than she remembered it to be.

The witch was the same, but younger and just as attentive as she would be later on. The hallways were cleaner, newer she supposed. The grounds were well-tended to. The lab she remembered spotting last time was in use again. And then there was the bar.

With a surprise occupant glowering at his coffee, sitting in a corner of the counter.

Severus Snape. She hadn't seen him in years. At least, she thought so. Masks tended to discourage people from identifying them.

What was he doing here? Enjoying a good strong brew of caffeine? Why come here, of all places?

She seriously wondered, belatedly, what year it was. Had they had their owls yet? Or was this the summer before fifth year? Had their friendship already been sundered? Would he greet her the way he used to before, all aloof smiles or would he look like a kicked puppy the way he had back then?

Could she talk to him? Could she stop him from becoming a Death Eater? She steeled herself. She was a Gryffindor. Even if she failed, it would be worth a try. She stepped forward.

* * *

He didn't look up as someone sat down next to him. He didn't even look up as he saw a flash of a strangely familiar long-sleeved shirt signal the barman. He didn't look up as the drink was delivered. He didn't need to. He could smell who it was.

Lily. Lily was there, sitting right next to him. Not saying a word. Just sipping her drink (and why was she drinking stout ale, of all things?) and, if the feeling on the side of his face was anything to go by, looking right at him. Staring, even.

This was what his nightmares used to be made of, once upon a time. Him, alone at a table, doing something dream-related, only for Lily to sit down in front of him and stare at him with those eyes of hers, looking on in mute accusation. The first time he'd had them had been-hah, summer between fifth and sixth year. They'd disappeared after he became a Death Eater. Thing about nightmares is that, when they don't measure up to what you encounter when awake, they tend to be replaced by those self-same memories that chased them away. The second bout of Lilymares had come after her death. Those… hadn't been fun, to say the least. Her dead, accusing stare piercing into him right in the middle of a memory-dream. The way her lips curled into a sneer before cracking and leaking putrescent blood all over the place, the familiar smell of the not-so-recently deceased intermingling with the scents he remembered from so long ago-not fun.

How fitting, to have his nightmares become reality so close to when they started being nightmares in the previous timeline.

The glass _thunk_ed onto the table, half empty (or half full, if you were a Gryffindor). He finally looked up into her eyes. "Hello." He croaked/rasped, his voice probably adversely affected by the whiskey. "Didn't think I'd run into you here." Really, he didn't. If he'd known, he would have taken the Knight Bus to Diagon and damn the consequences. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

Lily just stared at him. If not for the obvious confusion in her face, he would have thought that the alcohol had been decent enough to actually act as advertised and that he was currently passed out on the table. No hatred, fury, anger, fear, lifelessness or any of the other myriad guilt-inducing emotions she'd display in his nightmares. Just… confusion.

"Severus?" She asked. "You're _drinking_?" Severus _never_ drank back in the past. No matter what the occasion, the boy she'd known had been best described as a teetotaller for all his other faults. He'd sworn on more than one occasion to stay away from the stuff and had asked her to, quote, 'brain me if I ever am foolish enough to consider it', unquote. Yet here he was, chugging Irish coffees and stinking like he'd just been dunked into a brewing vat. And it wasn't even late afternoon yet. What was wrong with him?

"Indeed." He said, injecting some of his old 'I am the head of your house, you bloody dunderhead' snark into the mix. "Though I do have to ask-stout ale, miss Evans?"

"Well-" she said, flustered, before shutting up and glowering at him. "You _never_ drank-drink."

"I have been known to indulge." He said, calmly sipping his luke-warm drink. "Should the situation call for it." Not a muscle moved on his face. He didn't have the desire or the patience to deal with this teenage copy of the woman he'd loved. He just hoped she was mature enough to get the hint.

"And what would warrant _you_ drinking?" She responded, hackles rising at both his tone and the expressionless mask he was pointing her way. Where _had_ he learned to do that?

"Why, death of course." He answered before raising his glass. "To Eileen Prince, last true pureblood of the Prince line and supremely foolish woman who could never get anything right." He chugged the rest of his coffee and shrugged. "Like I said, the occasion called for it. And you? Never thought you'd want to see me again, let alone voluntarily share any sort of space with me." Lily winced. He didn't care. She wasn't _his_ Lily, after all.

Ah. So it _was _that summer. Brilliant. "Look, I've been thinking and-"

"Indeed? Do tell me more, I am all ears."

"Oh can it, _Sev_!" She said, noting the subtle flinch he gave at the nickname. "I just wanted to know why."

"Why what?" He asked despondently.

"You called me a mudblood." She said coldly, carefully not asking the _real _question plaguing her mind-why did he join the Death Eaters, in the end? He was a half-blood with a muggle parent and a disgraced pureblood mother. It was plain to see that, after the muggleborn, he was next.

He hissed this time. "_Yes_, I did indeed." He said, having trouble schooling his features back into the stony façade he'd affected during most of the conversation.

"Why did you?"

"Why does it matter?" He finally snapped. "It was a stupid mistake made long ago." He said, not noticing the tingling creep of the alcohol finally hitting his system. "I paid enough for it, in the end." Finally, he sighed. "I've said it before, I'll say it again; I didn't mean it. It was a mistake." He signalled for another round.

Lily signalled for a refill of her mug of ale as she pondered his words. _Long ago_… "Correct me if I'm wrong." She said carefully. "But this happened only three months ago."

Snape looked at his cup of coffee and shot of whiskey. He pushed the coffee aside. "Yes." He took the shot. "And?"

"So that's not exactly _long ago_, now is it?" She said sarcastically.

"It felt longer to me." He said, sipping on his coffee. "A lot longer."

"How long?" She asked intently.

"What?" Severus asked, confused.

"Why did you become a Death Eater, Sev?" She asked, taking a shot in the dark. _Please please please, don't prove me right_ ran through her mind as her heart hammered against her rib-cage and the ale went down far too smoothly for comfort.

Severus just looked at her, occlumency shields failing under the strain of emotions and alcohol. The façade crumbled as the direction of the conversation started to percolate. Did. She said _did_. Not will become. Not are you going to be. Why _did_ you become a Death Eater. That means she knew about things that hadn't happened yet. Could it-"Lily?" He asked weakly, feeling like the kid he looked like again all those years ago. "But-but how?"

"Hello again, Snape." Lily stated coldly. "You have some explaining to do."

Severus cursed the gods once more. Then again, he _was_ stranded in the past, so maybe the gods listened and took exception to his cursing.

* * *

They were on their third pot of coffee by the time Severus had recovered a modicum of composure. A bottle of chili-Rum lay on the table next to it, unopened. Severus'd paid the extra Galleon and brought his guest up to the room earlier before instructing Brillig on what to bring him. Sitting on his lap was a vial of veritaserum he'd brewed for Horace's class as an extra credit assignment two years ago. It was still good, thanks to the stasis charm (Lily's, from back when she still talked to him), and was of a high enough quality, according to Slughorn, for use by the DMLE. The deal was simple; the two would talk in private. In exchange, Severus answered the furious Lily's questions and could elect to use veritaserum on him if she so chose. Their wands lay on the bed, forgotten. They were tucked close to the window overlooking the grounds, one sofa apiece.

He wasn't looking forward to this conversation.

"So then, we're here." Lily said, looking like she'd prefer to stand up and pace. "Talk."

"Ask away." Severus retorted coolly, sipping on his straight black coffee. "Unless you really _want_ an in-depth discussion on the weather in Scotland, that is."

"Hmph. Okay then." She leaned closer. "You became a Death Eater. When was this?"

"Christmas day in seventh year." He said calmly.

"Why?"

"Why do you _think_?" He was not answering that question if he could possibly avoid it.

"Because you hate mudbloods?" She asked.

"No. It wasn't the hatred that attracted me."

"The power, then?"

"Partially, yes." He admitted reluctantly. "Amongst other things."

She sighed. "Alright, we'll get back to that later. How many people have you killed?"

"Directly or indirectly?"

"That's not an answer."

"Indeed not. It's a request for clarification."

"Both."

"Thirty-seven directly. Indirectly, close to two hundred."

"_Two hundred_?" She gasped. "How?"

Severus smiled thinly at her. "Do you remember that informant that ended up working with Dumbledore near the end?"

"That was you?"

"Indeed."

"But… two hundred?"

"Dumbledore was a good man. He was not, however, _nice_." He said tonelessly. "The information I gave him led to arrest of a dozen Death Eaters-and close to fifty assassinations." Severus smirked. "Don't worry though-they deserved it."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you think Pettigrew was the only _rat_ in your group?" Lily made a disgusted face. "You would not believe the depths of treachery the Dark Lord could inspire on a bad day, Lily, let alone a _good _one. Not that there were many of those, thank Merlin."

"Fine." Lily sighed. "And the direct ones? Anyone I knew?"

Severus shifted in his seat. "Marlene McKinnon. Abilene Bones. Marcus Tonks. And Albus Dumbledore."

"What." Lily said, thrown by his admission (not to mention the degree of satisfaction lacing his voice at the name). "You _killed_ Dumbledore? _You_ killed Dumbledore?"

"It was, admittedly, at his own request, but yes, yes I did."

"You killed _Dumbledore_?" She asked again, looking like he'd just kicked a puppy to death in front of her. "_At his own request_?"

Severus shrugged. "He was dying. It was… painful. Let's leave it at that please."

"Fine then." She said coldly, deciding to let the murders go until later. "When?"

"When what?"

"When did you die?"

"Yesterday." Came the prompt reply. "Otherwise known as May 1998."

"Wow." Lily stated, impressed that he'd lasted that long. "And how?"

"The Dark Lord's Snake mistook me for dinner." At Lily's quick glance to the serum in his lap, Snape clarified. "That was not a joke, by the way. Nagini attacked me and ripped my throat to shreds."

"Oh!" She exclaimed, clearly disturbed at how he'd died. "But… why?"

"The Dark Lord thought that I had something he wanted. Something I didn't have. It got ugly." He said.

"And what about my son?" She asked, worry lacing her tone. "Did… did he make it?"

"He was still alive the last time I saw him, if that's what you mean." He stated. "Other than that, I don't know."

"Oh. And what can you tell me about him?" She asked quietly, longing in her voice.

Severus frowned before gulping down three droplets of veritaserum. "You're not going to like it."

* * *

He was right. She didn't like it. Didn't like hearing that none of her friends had taken Harry in. That his godfather had been falsely imprisoned. That his godmother was nothing more than a vegetable less than a week after Halloween. That Petunia had been the one Harry was entrusted to. How her and that whale of a husband of hers trampled all over that trust-gleefully. Didn't like hearing about his years at Hogwarts, about the events Dumbledore'd orchestrated in front of Snape. Didn't like hearing about Snape's treatment of her son-and why. Didn't like what the Prophecy really, _truly_ meant according to her erstwhile commander. Didn't like how the boy she'd given her life for was in turn a celebrity, a pariah, a criminal, a liar and a cheat in the public's eyes. Didn't like how he hadn't managed to visit her grave in sixteen years due to the actions and decisions made by the one man she'd trusted and respected enough to follow. Didn't like how her son had been set up as a voluntary sacrifice with Snape acting as the trigger mechanism.

It was a long night.

Dawn was finally breaking by the time the whole sordid affair was told. He hadn't missed, sugarcoated or evaded on anything. Every single detail of Harry's life he was privy to, who was involved, why, when, where and how was given, in minute detail to her. Including his own personal involvement.

He was irrevocably, absolutely right.

"Why, Sev?" She asked, looking drawn and haggard in her couch, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-finished cigarette in the other. "Why didn't you help him? Why didn't you _do_ anything? Did I mean that little to you?"

"No." Severus said, eyes still glassy as he allowed the veritaserum to coax the answer out of him. "That was not it. You meant _everything_ to me at the time. But I made a magical oath to aid Dumbledore in any endeavour aimed at protecting you and bringing down the Dark Lord. He would accept no less. Which meant following his instructions, his very rigorous, _strict_ instructions when it came to Harry James Potter. To wit, I was not to interfere in his life unless absolutely necessary. I was to protect him as long as it didn't give away my cover. I was to assist him indirectly and never let him know of my involvement in his affairs. And that was all I was allowed to do. Nothing more, nothing less."

Lily stared at him. "Is that why you were satisfied when you spoke of killing Dumbledore?"

"I hate the man. I trusted him with your life and he failed me. I trusted him with mine and he, ultimately, failed me. I trusted him with the safety and well-being of your son and he, once again, failed in that more than in anything else. I trusted him with having the capability to strike down the Dark Lord and he forced me to watch as he groomed the one last link I had to you into committing suicide for six years straight. He forced me onto the sidelines when I wanted to help, to intervene, to do _something_ other than stand around and wait for the incident of the year to occur. He failed me at every turn and then asked me to kill him. I did so gladly." Snape looked at Lily. "I followed him, believing that that would help atone for my sins. All he did was force me to commit more atrocities, watch on as an innocent young boy was sapped of everything he could have been. Ultimately, I welcomed death because of it."

There was a long silence. "I can't forgive you." Lily whispered.

"I never asked for forgiveness."

"You did. Once. Long ago. Would it have changed anything?"

"Yes. Once. Long ago." He answered truthfully.

"Do you regret killing people?"

"It depends on who I killed, but generally yes." He said, smiling. "After all, they weren't _all_ innocents."

"I hate you."

"I know. That makes two of us."

Lily just looked at him, the boy who was once a man who'd been both victim and instigator and said. "I need time. To think."

"Nothing's going to be the same now." Snape commented. "We travelled through time. Our mere presence has changed everything."

"Yes. But I still need time."

"I will never be that man I became, you know. Not again."

"I know. But you were once that man. And that's not something I can forget." She said, standing up and heading for the door.

"But can you forgive me, Lily?" Snape asked quietly. Lily stopped. "Can you, now that I _am_ asking for it?"

Lily didn't turn around. "Some day. Maybe." She conceded. "But not yet. And even if I do…"

"I know." Snape whispered. Lily opened the door and left. "But at least now I have a chance."

It was a blissful sleep.


	25. The Executive Planning Committee

**_A/N_**_: 'Working for the enemy' is a standard trope when it comes to virtually any form of intrigue story. In the Harry Potter fan-verse, this often translates into 'X secretly working for Voldemort/Grindelwald/bashy trashy Dumbledore' due to X being secretly related/infatuated/agreeing with the villain of the piece. So how would this work in real terms-as in, what would actually persuade one or more of the heroes to join the bad guys' side? Well, here's one such piece._

The Executive Planning Committee

The soft _hum_ of working ventilation systems pervaded the office as the two men walked in. There wasn't much to say about the office, really. It just looked like any other office anywhere in the world-row upon row of cubicles, each with exactly the amount of space needed for the worker to perform his or her duties in relative comfort. A desk built into one of the cubicle walls, a chair, a phone and a stack of files sitting next to reference books with a desktop terminal merrily humming away was the norm here. The spaces inside had little personal adjustments made to them by their habitual occupants-a photo here, a plant there, maybe even a stuffed toy or two if the worker felt the need to rebel at the conformity of it all. Workers dressed in shirts, black pants and their personal choice of footwear milled around, doubtlessly gossiping between bouts of work and coffee breaks.

"Remember, nothing you see or hear on these premises is to be discussed with anyone else. Before leaving, you'll agree to the standard oaths of secrecy. Until then, don't talk to anyone without permission. Clear?"

The rest of the office space was sparsely decorated with paintings and the odd lounge chair sticking out of the mass of pastel colours decorating the walls. A water fountain gurgled away merrily in the corner.

"Clear."

The centerpiece of the room held a map of the UK. Bright dots could be seen on the old wall-sized cartographic representation dating back to the fifties at the very least. The only indication that this was _not_ your standard paper-canvas map was that, if you looked closely, the dots moved.

"Remember, we're here to work. I'll tell you more about that once inside, but it's _vital_ that you remain consummately professional whilst in here. Standing out is a bad idea, got that?"

This was, for all intents and purposes, a normal office. Except for one key difference-nobody working there was normal by any stretch of the imagination.

"Yes."

"Keep it that way."

The photos moved. The paintings were not as still as one would think. The plants were decidedly odd. The water fountain could provide whatever you wanted, from coffee and tea to coca-cola, on tap, with a simple command. About the only normal thing around were the desktop terminal computers-except if you took a good long look at their operating systems.

The workers were wizards. Muggleborn, in point of fact. All working in secret, forbidden from using magic in their office hours, they toiled day-in, day-out in service of one supposedly advocating their destruction.

Hidden in an industrial estate on the very edge of London, with a stunning view of one of the M25's many tributaries, lay the headquarters for the Dark Lord Voldemort's central operations command.

"So then," Severus Snape adressed his companion. "Here we are."

"What?" Fenrir Greyback asked. "What is this?"

"This is where we plan Death Eater operations." The greasy-haired potions master, wearing a formal business suit for the occasion, addressed his similarly-attired companion. "Every raid, every move, every strategy the Dark Lord has implemented either originates from here or is tested here." Snape said happily. "You wanted to see where the Dark Lord does his planning, well here it is."

"But-" Greyback started, looking flustered as he saw the half-dozen workers milling about. "This is nothing like anything I'd imagined."

"That's the point." Severus stated in deadpan. "Despite appearances, the Dark Lord knows a thing or two about subtlety." Fenrir just stared at him. "Look, say you were the Dark Lord. If you want to _hide_ your plans, how do you go about it? Do you either have your Inner Circle or known minions assist you which, while certainly making things easier, also means that their capture would severely compromise any plans they came up with? Or do you ensure that the people you go to for planning purposes are the next best thing to invisible and/or extremely unlikely to join your side in the first place?"

Greyback kept staring. "I don't get it."

Snape sighed. "Let's try this differently. The Dark Lord's followers-namely us- are well-known. You following me?" Fenrir nodded. "We also fight in His name, putting our lives and freedom on the line in order to satisfy His demands on a regular basis. This makes us more susceptible than most to either being captured or killed. See?" The werewolf nodded again. "Now while this is pretty much what makes us His favored, it also means that any information we may have on The Dark Lord's activities is at risk every time we conduct a raid, end up in a fight or even walk through a wizarding precinct."

"Okay, that's fairly straightforward." Greyback acceded. "But that still doesn't explain, well, _them_ working for us."

"Indeed it doesn't. What you have to understand, though, is that the Dark Lord's initial planning methods didn't work very well. Every single plan he spent a decade or more working towards was useless after his fall, not because he fell, but because the entire Inner Circle was privy to them by that stage-and were more than willing to strike a bargain in order to get out of Azkaban. About the only ones that _didn't_ agree to the deals were, well…"

"Us." Greyback growled, referring to himself and the other inmates the Dark Lord broke out a year ago.

"Yes." Severus said, smiling. "The only reason _I_ didn't end up in Azkaban, despite not having any information to trade, was because I agreed to help Dumbledore at Hogwarts. In exchange for good behavior, I got to stay. Now that the man is dead…" He sighed. "Anyway, after His resurrection, the Dark Lord decided to limit the amount of information we have access to-all for good reasons, of course. However, that left him with a dilemma-He couldn't trust his Inner Circle with the information needed to allow them to help Him in these plans and He couldn't plan out His entire rise by Himself again within the timeframe we were working off. So a change of approach was needed. Follow me." Snape said, going to the far side of the office.

"I see. And this is what the Dark Lord came up with?" the werewolf asked, eyeing a mudblood he remembered going to school with strangely. "It's strange."

"No, actually, it isn't. It's only strange if you truly believe that the Dark Lord truly believes that all mudbloods-sorry" he said as one of the workers turned to glare at the man "-_muggleborn_ must be killed in order to preserve the Wizarding World."

"Yeah." Greyback grinned savagely. "He said the same thing about werewolves until my pack joined. Changed His tune mighty fast after that."

Severus snorted. "And the same thing happened here. He had me approach a number of my former muggleborn classmates with an offer-immunity from persecution by Death Eaters and double their salary in exchange for helping Him rise once more. Most of them didn't agree and were killed, but some did. Those muggleborn then asked a few others, who asked a few more, who asked a few more and so on and so forth-and the Executive Planning Committee was born."

Snape stopped at the door and tapped his wand against the lock. "_Rex Serpentium_. Don't try to open any doors by yourself here, Greyback. Not unless you absolutely want the Dark Lord to wear your hide as a legwarmer, at any rate. So, they were all offered a job with us. Most were working dead-end jobs in the few shops and ministry roles they were allowed to. Only those in league with the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry refused point-blank, which didn't really affect the numbers that much. And the recruits were getting progressively younger too, so much so that we've effectively started an internship program for the younger applicants-one of which was fourteen, last I checked. By the time we went to Hogwarts last month, a lot of the seventh-year muggleborn were already working for us as intelligence-gatherers, raid schedulers, tactical doctrine planning and the like. They don't engage in raids unlike His true followers, but their assistance has proven to be invaluable on a number of fronts."

"Sounds like it's working then." Fenrir noted. "They really help us?"

"Oh yes, they most certainly did. Bungling though the Ministry may be, they're not the fools their actions proclaim them to be. Rookwood may have opened up the Department of Mysteries to intrusion, but it took a lot of mudblood agents working around the clock to keep it open. Indeed, your liberation from Azkaban wouldn't have been possible hadn't one of our employees rerouted that tanker into the path of the wards. And didn't you find it odd that the path was all but cleared for us?" Snape smiled. "Our little friends did very well indeed."

Fenrir nodded as yet another door _swish_ed open. "I see. And what do they do, really, apart from helping things along?"

Severus shook his head. "It varies. The core of this project is doing just that-planning Voldemort's takeover of Magical Britain, step by step. They're assisted by a number of promising minds who are learning on the job, as it were, preparing for the longer term plans of conquering the European Wizarding Enclaves and Magical Britain's transition from a backwater has-been to its former Imperial glory. The others help gather intelligence and run war games based on the plans delivered to them by the core Committee in order to test the plans. Yet others are organizing into squads of field agents that can operate both in the muggle and magical worlds. That's the bulk of them I believe." He paused, swishing his wand in a complicated pattern at an elevator door. "The rest of them handle Committee Administration, recruitment and back-office processes too sensitive to be handled by other branches of the Dark Lord's forces."

"Hmm." Greyback thought. "Why am I here, then?"

Severus frowned. "It's because we have problems with two of our most recent recruits. There are some… irregularities to address."

"Still doesn't explain why the Dark Lord wants both me _and_ you here." Fenrir pointed out.

"There are special circumstances surrounding these two. Special enough to warrant the Dark Lord wanting to negotiate with them, at any rate. You are here ostensibly as a guard, but your real task is to pay close attention and use that nose of yours to detect whether one or the other is lying. _I_ am here because, in all His wisdom, He has appointed me as His representative in this. If they are lying, we're to kill them with extreme prejudice." Severus told him.

The werewolf looked surprised. "Really? And just who _are_ these two?"

Snape smiled. "Hermione Jane Granger and Harry James Potter." Lily would probably kill him when he got to the afterlife for this, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it while he still breathed.

Fenrir Greyback laughed.

* * *

The two teenagers were lounging around in the office's sofa when the Death Eaters entered. Granger's nose, predictably, was buried in a book much like Snape thought she would be. _Traditional Tactics of Dark Wizards & Witches_, by M. Cattermole. Heavy on detail, if Snape remembered correctly. It probably helped that Mary had been on the receiving end of said tactics more than once before she'd accepted his offer. The cup of coffee sitting next to Granger looked half empty. Potter was skimming through one of the Committee's recruitment pamphlets, probably thinking up some mischief instead of actually reading what was said on the pages. They didn't look particularly happy to be here. Not that Snape could really blame them. His task, after all, was to find out why they were here and if it was worth keeping them or not.

Fenrir sniffed the air, smiled and sat on the desk. Snape decided to ignore the insufferable werewolf and gazed at his two former charges with interest. They were dressed formally (which, given that this was an interview/negotiation, was appropriate) and were both carrying briefcases with them. Their wands were sitting on the small coffee table next to two small cups. They looked decidedly less healthy than the last time Snape had seen them, all pale skin and sunken cheeks. All in all, better than he expected upon entering the room. Snape straightened his tie.

"Right." He said slowly. Potter looked up at him before inclining his head and nudging Hermione, who looked up from her book and offered an equally subdued greeting to him and Fenrir. Greyback nodded back. "Any particular reason why you two are here?"

"Applying for a job." Potter answered. "You?"

"Conducting an interview with keen, well-prepared applicants. Happen to run into them anywhere?" Snape sneered back.

"Oh, honestly." Granger huffed. "We wish to join your organization."

"Indeed? You _do_ know what we do here, don't you?" Greyback asked.

"You're planning to overthrow the Ministry of Magic in favor of Vol-the Dark Lord." Potter deadpanned.

"That, and figuring out ways to kill you." The werewolf said with a leer. Potter scoffed before muttering under his breath.

"And if we join your side, that's one less thing you have to worry about, isn't it?" Granger stated.

"Which begs the question as to _why_ you intend to join those who'd kill you." Snape interjected.

"Well-."Potter started, then stopped. "The salary's nice-ow, Hermione!" he exclaimed, glaring at the girl sitting next to him before continuing. "Anyway, we've thought about the career opportunities on offer and decided to apply."

"And nothing more?" Snape asked in surprise. "You would put yourself at such a risk for a _job_?"

"Well, it's not just _any_ job." He said darkly. "I get to help topple the government."

Granger glared at the boy. "Harry, we discussed this." She noted primly. "Just tell them the truth."

Potter's lips thinned. "Fine." He said. "Dumbledore's portrait activated before the start of summer holidays. We had a _talk_. He pointed me towards his pensieve."

"And the contents of that pensieve?" Fenrir asked, curious despite himself.

"He was set up." Hermione piped up as Potter faltered. "The Headmaster set him up as a sacrifice…" she frowned. "Not to mention that half-baked plan of his."

"Ah." Severus said in understanding. "And what memories were these?"

"Yours." Potter stated. "Everything from your school days to your last meeting with him."

"All that magic, all that power, all those plans and he's undone by wrongly labeling a vial." Granger said with a nasty-looking smile. "It… changed a few things."

Snape didn't dare speak, which left an opening for Greyback to butt in. "And what the hell did Sev's memories have to do with anything?"

"Let me put it this way." Potter clarified. "If we hadn't seen those memories, Hermione, Ron and I would currently be hunting artifacts left behind by the Dark Lord. We would be spending most of our time blindly stumbling around Britain trying to locate said artifacts until You-Know-Who caught up with me and killed me. Just like Dumbledore wanted him to." Potter shrugged. "I-_we_ decided not to go with that plan."

"It still doesn't follow that you would just up and join us instead, you know." The werewolf pointed out. "In fact, what you just told me means that you would do everything in your power to get as far away from the Dark Lord as fast as possible."

"You would think so." Granger agreed. "But a number of things argued against us taking that course of action-You-Know-Who would catch up with and kill us eventually, for one. He's _obsessed_ with Harry and the connection they share doesn't help." Fenrir looked startled at that piece of news. "That's what I thought too. Second, say we went through with the original plan. Harry dies. You-Know-Who, presumably, dies as well. What happens then? More of the same? Because that's what's happened every single time a Dark Lord has risen. Grindelwald rises, gets taken down. You-Know-Who rises, gets taken down. You-Know-Who rises again. If he gets taken down, someone will come along in a few years' time, take over where he left off and start the whole rigmarole again. In the intervening years, muggleborns lose more and more rights, magical creatures get hunted again, the pureblood Houses get richer and everyone else poorer. Then the next Dark Lord pops up, hunts a minority group or two in his spare time, kills off the heirs of some of the Houses, whose heirless assets then get sold off or put in trust, which fuels an economic boom while the muggleborn make a killing hiding the Dark Lord's targets in the muggle world until the whole thing blows over. And Merlin help you if it's a Dark Lady… So yes, we _could_ run, but it wouldn't truly change the outcome."

Snape frowned. "What do you have to offer?"

Potter straightened. "For starters, Dumbledore's research on the artifacts in question. Most of it was told to no-one other than me. Ron knows the bare minimum-how many there are-, but that's it. Hermione knows almost all of it. I know all of it. Second, a new pool of recruits you can tap into. We have made many friends in our time, primarily muggleborn too. We can get them for you. Third, my backing. I am willing to offer complete support to You-Know-Who when he makes his move-as long as it doesn't involve me fighting or dying."

"And you?" Snape asked.

"Two properties in the muggle world. They're mine, under heavy wards and would make ideal safe-houses should they be needed. I have also done exhaustive research of the wards around Hogwarts, the Ministry, Gringott's and the dragon preserve in Romania." Granger stated.

"How did you come by all that?" The werewolf asked.

"I obliviated my parents and sent them to Australia. They conveniently left everything else behind." Hermione said with a sad frown, eliciting a cuddle from Potter. "As for the other material, it was meant to be my NEWTS project in Runes-picking out the flaws in the warding schemes and designing countermeasures. I've already mapped the wards, their flaws and backdoor entrances. I've got some ideas for the countermeasures but still have to work on the finer points of them."

"Okay then." Fenrir said, signaling for Snape to continue.

"Say that you are offered a post here." Severus asked thoughtfully. "What do you intend to gain from it?"

"I get to live." Harry growled. "Which is a damn sight better than what was on offer before. Also, maybe I can finally get someone to get rid of this damn scar for me, if that's not too much to ask for. That, and the salary's nice." He smiled sheepishly as Hermione glowered and poked him. "What? It is!"

"Potter, be serious please." Snape snapped, inwardly smiling at the look of hurt on the boy's face. Nice to know he could still push the brat's buttons. "And you, Granger? What do you get out of this?"

"You have to ask?" Granger said, worrying her lip whilst glaring at him.

"Yes, I do. The Dark Lord is incredibly _keen_ to understand just why two members of the Golden Trio would turn traitor-as am I."

Hermione reared back and hissed like an angry cat. "_It's not treason_! He didn't ask to fight this war. _I _didn't ask to fight this war. I just want a normal life with my best friends. If you want to take over the wizarding world, as long as you stay away from my friends and family I could care less by this stage. I'm just… tired, really. This way, I get a nice job with my best friend, I don't need to hike across country fighting a fight that really shouldn't be ours to fight in the first place and I also join the most pro-muggleborn organization in Wizarding Britain."

"What?" Greyback asked.

"Oh, think about it!" Potter snapped. "You-Know-Who's got almost half the muggleborn population in wizarding Britain working for him by this stage. Most of my friends at Hogwarts have joined this damn organization because the benefits were better than anything on offer anywhere else! Did you ever stop to _count_ how many so-called 'mudbloods' you've recruited in less than two years?"

"Yes, actually." Snape said.

"And how many is that?" Hermione asked in genuine curiosity.

"Seven hundred."

"You see?" Potter said. "The muggleborn working for You-Know-Who outnumber the Death Eaters by two to one. None of them have joined the Order or the Aurors in the past year because they found it better to come and work for you instead. And why not? They work for you, their families are safe! Hell, some of them even claim that they got their friends declared off-limits as well. And you people respect that because it's You-Know-Who's will! No more worrying about dying in the war, no more prejudice against who you are-compared to Wizarding Britain, this is paradise! As long as they work for him, they have nothing to fear." Potter shrugged. "You-Know-Who's done more for the muggleborn he employs than anyone else in the past century. And given the few plans he's working on, it's likely that this system'll keep working for a very, very long time."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Exactly. The Committee is now the place to go for muggleborn. Kind of ironic, but hey." She shrugged. "It's better than anything else out there."

"And your friends?" Snape asked carefully.

"Everyone knows." Potter said. "We left a note at the Burrow about it and told all our closest friends. I've done more than enough fighting for a lifetime. Hermione deserves better than what she was getting. Ron has his family and knows the score. If he could find a job here, he would have come with."

"More importantly, we told them why we were doing this and to run if we didn't drop them a message. Either way, as long as they don't fight, they're safe." Hermione shrugged. "Best we could do at such short notice."

"What about the other muggleborn?" Fenrir asked.

"Well, that's where this gets interesting." Potter said. "You see, I somehow doubt that You-Know-Who will just keep torturing people who could work for him one day."

"No, He does that to everyone." Greyback pointed out. "He packs a mean _crucio_."

"I know." The boy-who-lived pointed out. "What I meant to say was that, with his future plans, he'll need more and more people working for him. People who know how both sides, magical and muggle, work. The only ones who do are the muggleborn and the muggle-raised. If he wants his plans to be good enough to work, he'll come to us. I like to think he's starting to see that. Besides, the muggleborn are almost universally persecuted wherever you go, which leaves them open to someone willing to allow them a good life under their rule, no matter who that happens to be. They won't care if it's You-Know-Who as long as they can actually have a decent standard of living, a steady job and a future. It's something they'd be willing to fight for-and there's more of them than there are purebloods…" Harry shrugged. "You do the math on that one."

"And you're willing to support Him?" Fenrir asked. "He murdered your parents."

"I know." Harry agreed. "And if it were just me, I'd follow through with the original plan just to get a shot at him. But it's not about me anymore." He said, clutching Granger's arm.

Severus's breath hitched. "You're together, aren't you."

"Yes." Granger said.

Greyback smirked. "She's pregnant too. His, if the smell's right."

"_What_?" Granger shouted.

Severus face-palmed.

* * *

Lord Voldemort exited the Pensieve with a thoughtful look on his face. "So _that_ was the prophecy…" He sighed. "_Neither can live while the other survives_." He smirked. "Well, well, well Albus. You definitely cocked _that_ up, didn't you?"

"Milord?" Severus asked nervously.

"_Think_, Severus. What did I do on Halloween all those years ago?" He stalked closer to his most trusted Death Eater. "_I died_. Rather spectacularly too. A throw-away line at the end of a prophecy, one that specifically stated that one of us had to die for it to be fulfilled, and Albus interpreted it rather badly. I _didn't _live. Potter _did_. Ergo, fulfilled prophecy." He sniggered. "Oh, the old goat would be kicking himself if he were here."

"And the Potter boy, sir?"

"Hmm, _him_." The-one-formerly-known-as-Riddle snorted. "He is right, to an extent. With him telling me that others know about the horcruxes-a subject we shall _talk _about later, Severus-, I need to secure them. Him being one too makes this rather difficult, but not impossible. The boy is still and insufferable Gryffindor and, hence, difficult to control." The Dark Lord _hmmed_. "Maybe his new wife and future child will make it easier, but I doubt it."

"Potter is right, sir?" Snape asked, clearly puzzled at the earlier non sequitur.

"If I had foreseen the situation in which I now find myself, Severus, I would have force-fed you your testicles before giving you the Mark." The blood-red eyes narrowed as the Dark Lord scowled. "Using mudbloods for planning and information gathering indeed. What were you thinking?"

"That they were universally ignored at best despite their capabilities. And that nobody in the Ministry or at Hogwarts would suspect it." Snape deadpanned.

"Hah!" Voldemort shouted. "You spent too much time around that mudblood _bitch_ in your youth, Snape."

"Indeed."

"And yet your stupidity has borne fruit. Five years of fighting, condensed into three months' worth of carefully planned surgical strikes. The Ministry mine by September, the Wizengamot routed by December and all of Magical Britain mine to command before Summer next year. I daresay that their effectiveness is rather spectacular." Voldemort patted Severus on the back. "However, that still leaves me with hundreds of mudbloods working for me, Severus. What would you propose I do with them?"

"Keep employing them milord." Severus offered. "They are commited now-some more than those willingly bearing your mark. Their effectiveness in gathering information and ensuring your victories has been undeniable."

"Hmph." The Dark Lord snorted. "Blood will out, Severus."

"And this little venture netted you the Boy-Who-Lived as a supporter. Blood may out, milord, but until it does…"

Voldemort agreed silently. "Who else knows of this, apart from Greyback?"

"Narcissa, milord, sworn to silence."

"Why did she go along with your deception?"

"What deception milord? I did exactly as you asked me to."

"I asked for planners I could trust. I asked for you to establish it in such a way that nobody would know about it until it was too late. And you gave me _mudbloods!_" He hissed, clearly pissed off at him.

"And yet…"

"_Crucio!_" Voldemort shouted. Severus collapsed and kept screaming until the spell was lifted.

"Milord." Snape croaked. "Think about it-you have hundreds of extremely capable wizards & witches loyal to you, who know how to travel by muggle means, know how to use muggle technology and can fight using both muggle and magical weapons. And they are loyal _to you_, milord!"

"Just because you are right, Severus, doesn't mean that I have to like it." Voldemort stated coldly. "And because you saw fit to pre-empt me, abuse my offer of immunity for your agents and waste so much money on this _scheme_ of yours, then you shall be solely responsible for handling it. Take Narcissa and Greyback with you." He ordered as he left his erstwhile potions master to twitch on the floor.

Then it hit Severus. Voldemort had just promoted him to head the Executive Planning Committee, with all the responsibilities that entailed. Alongside Narcissa Malfoy, pureblood princess extraordinaire and Fenrir Greyback, the one man to whom both wizarding and muggle civilization was a bewildering thing best avoided, he was supposed to ride herd on half the muggleborn in England as well as-

He groaned, realizing what this meant. Even with the war virtually won, he was stuck babysitting Potter(s) again. Joy.


End file.
